


Knife Edge

by JanitorBot



Category: Rockman X | Mega Man X, Rockman | Mega Man - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Because I am not a scientist, Cameos, Cameos everywhere, Cooking, Crack Treated Seriously, Fluff, M/M, Reality TV, Reploid Cuisine, SO MANY REPLOIDS, Technobabble BS, Zero deals with normal people, so many bad puns, whoo boy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-10
Updated: 2020-06-23
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:53:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 24,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23572651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JanitorBot/pseuds/JanitorBot
Summary: “…Or I can join Knife Edge and use their equipment.”“Or you can join Knife Edge and use  – wait. What.”In which X loves food, Zero loves X, and Zero somehow ends up in a reality TV cooking show competition.
Relationships: X/Zero (Rockman)
Comments: 65
Kudos: 104





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Divine_shot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Divine_shot/gifts).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A commissioned fic for Divine_Shot who wanted to have the following: "X's favorite pastime is to eat and sample different varieties of food; having a big smile on his face on the ones he really enjoys. Zero finds out and motivated to see X smile like that often, wants to learn how to cook (mostly reploid and by standards human food too.) Cue Zero ending up on a cooking long term reality show where you have to work in teams."  
> By the way, I'm not a scientist or a professional chef with in-depth experience in molecular gastronomy. Please don't do anything that Zero or any reploid does in this fic. Please.  
> Featuring an X who's 12% more self-indulgent, a Zero who’s 24% more devoted, and an Axl (and a couple other characters) who’s 20(0)% in it for the shits and giggles .

“- passed the exams, I am no longer a rookie. It’s all thanks to you, sir. I…I greatly admire you. Will you please go out with me?”

 _Another one_ , thinks Zero, waiting right around the corner and discreetly out of sight. This isn’t the first and will neither be the last time he almost walked into another confession directed to X.

Minutes later as if on cue, X’s voice rings out a quiet, “I’m sorry.”

Honest and simple. As always. 

“I…oh, okay…n-no, I’m sorry, sir. I knew i-it was going to be like this, but I don’t know, I thought maybe if I was a real Hunter I’d…I don’t know. I guess I was stupid enough to – “

“No Quinn, you’re not stupid. You’re one of the brightest rookies I’ve trained," the Seventeenth Unit Leader praises. "You’re compassionate, optimistic, and I never had the doubt you would be accepted into the Third Unit. Please don’t use this to undervalue yourself.”

A sniffle. “Is it because of our rank differences? Do I have to be a Unit Leader to stand by your side?”

 _It’s because he says no to everyone_ , Zero doesn’t walk around and say. 

Instead, he gently leans his head back against the wall, his helmet clinking quietly as he stares at the ceiling.

For as long as Zero has known the Blue Bomber, X has never once accepted anyone’s confession. Ever.

* * *

“Never?” Axl repeats a tad incredulously over his E-Tank. “Seriously, _never?”_

“X doesn’t discriminate.”

“...Okay, that both makes _so_ much sense and _no_ sense at all. Does X have some sort of romantic baggage I don’t know about? Because I wouldn’t be surprised if he does. Having baggage I mean.”

At Zero’s unimpressed look, the black sharpshooter raises his hands. “What? I can’t ask? Come on, you know I’m not asking to get one-ups over him, right? If anything, I can avoid the subject if I know better, how about that?” He snaps his fingers cheekily. “Besides, you can’t blame me for thinking the bot’s got baggage. Dealing with X in the beginning was like trying to put out a dumpster fire with a flame sprayer– “

“I don’t exactly know either,” Zero allows just to get Axl to shut up. “X turned down confessions since I've known him when he was a rookie – “

“Bolts, even back in his rookie days? ”

“- And he never once gave a reason for it,” finishes Zero.

X only gives an apology and nothing more, which is acceptable. X is like the sun: warm, equally unattainable to everyone, and doesn’t owe an explanation for being what he is. There’s a solace knowing that he rejects out of some personal philosophy, not because he has a criteria. 

Axl stares at the SA-Rank Hunter before muttering sympathetically in his E-Tank. ”Sorry, that must be rough.”

Zero frowns. “What do you mean by that?”

“Uh.” Axl angles away, drinking his fuel, deliberately busying himself to avoid saying anything more. The sharpshooter settles down his empty tank on the table with a half-shrug. “I thought you also…never mind. Wipe what I just said.”

Zero’s frown deepens for a second before schooling his features back to their default, aloof state. He knew what Axl meant. It’s a conversation they don’t need to have. 

If X treats everyone equally romantically (meaning, he treats no one romantically), then to the former Maverick it’s good enough to simply be X’s friend.

It's more than the Wilybot deserves.

Zero was completely certain of this - right up until a week later.

* * *

It all begins in the Maverick Hunters canteen.

Zero, X, and Axl are situated in their usual spot: a small, round table in the corner of the cafeteria, nursing their individual E-Tanks when suddenly X raises a hand to the side of his helmet in mid-conversation.

He nods absent-mindedly to whoever’s calling him and then blinks. “It has to be in-person? Huh. Well it wouldn’t be a security concern if it’s only a delivery. You can send her up, thank you, Adris.”

“A delivery? What did you order?” Axl asks after X lowers his hand, hanging up his call.

“He didn’t order it,” Zero says in X’s stead. When the other two robots peer at him, the red combatdroid responds nonchalantly,” Every time X gets a package, it’s always from someone else. He doesn’t go out his way to purchase anything particularly for himself.”

If anything, X doesn’t have _that_ much zenny. While the Maverick Hunters do receive paychecks, Zero learned a long time ago that X had arranged automatic payments from his account to funnel into various charities and research projects. X keeps only enough money on his person to be comfortable if he desires to.

“Wow Zero, you just know everything, don’t you,” Axl quips lightly. 

_About X,_ goes unspoken.

Zero levels a swift glare at the black sharpshooter. Axl shoots an unimpressed snort right back. 

Their silent conversation goes unnoticed by X, who hums thoughtfully. “You’re not wrong. I think the last time I ordered anything was…that red pillbox hat for Alia. When she received her promotion and became Head Navigator.” A soft sigh. “I’m glad she liked it. Coming up gifts for her isn’t easy.”

“The same can be said about you,” Zero is about to comment when he registers several changes simultaneously. The background murmur of the Hunters around them have lowered volume. Combat mode registers a new unfamiliar presence - categorized Moderate and it’s beelining towards them from the direction of the elevators behind him.

Zero’s arm is reaching for his saber when he glances over his shoulder and stops short. It’s a female human dressed in a solid black waiter uniform standing before their table. She’s holding some sort of rounded object with a black cloth shrouding it (not the threat) with a blowtorch hooked to her waist (the potential threat).

Her metal nametag reads,” Sumi.”

Zero shoots her a cool, warning look.

Sumi, however, is cheerfully oblivious and is looking straight at the Azure Hunter. “Hello Mr. X, it is my honor to meet you!” she greets brightly. “I’m a server from South Pond on behalf of the chef, Crafty Polly. I hope I’m not interrupting anything?”

“You’re fine,” says X, slightly taken aback. “And please, you can just call me X.”

“Wonderful! Well then X, I have here a gift from the chef. However, before I can present it to you, I was instructed to read her message first.” The woman takes out a delicate note from her breast pocket. “Dear Maverick Hunter X, there are no words that can express my sheer gratitude for rescuing Alessandra last week. If it weren’t for you, I could have potentially lost an irreplaceable sous chef and a beloved friend. It is the least I can do to offer you one of my prized desserts from my restaurant: the Crystalline. I hope that it is to your liking. Sincerely, Crafty ‘Polly’ Pollywog.”

Sumi pockets the note. “Please excuse me, gentlebots.”

She steps between Zero and X to lay down the blanketed object on the center of the table, nudging X’s E-Tank gently to the side to make room. She tugs off the black cloth dramatically, revealing a smoked glass dome.

Before anyone can react, the human lifts the glass case, whips out the blowtorch and sets the smoke on fire.

“Zero!” X cries out sternly, which is the only reason Zero’s buster, already formed, hasn’t destroyed the offending object as it blazes in a startling purple flame. The other Hunters in the room are watching the uncommon sight, necks stretching high to see the commotion. Others have outright stood up to get a better view.

“Ohhhhh it’s one of those,” Zero hears Axl says in hushed excitement.

Entirely focused on her task, Sumi closes the flame a couple second later with the dome. She snuffs it swiftly and lifts the glass just as fast once more. The resulting smoke is grey and lazy, accompanied with a perfume-y odor that Zero assesses to be non-toxic. 

“The Crystalline,” the server declares proudly.

Zero scowls, not quite sure what he’s looking at. It looks like a rock. Specifically, a pale violet geode, but a rock nonetheless.

Except X’s mouth is dropping. “It’s beautiful,” he enthuses softly.

The Zeroth Unit Leader’s confusion deepens when the server summons a fork to X. “It is a chrome cake topped with two different glazes tempered in different heats, with a ceramic perovskite sphere and rochelle salt, electric infused energen filling.”

The warbot blinks.

Cake? The human food cake?

X pierces the surface of the cake with shocking ease. When his fork parts away, a gleaming pink liquid with a consistency liken to mercury cling to the bottom delicately.

“Is this lead zirconate titanite? I’ve never seen it used like this. There’s also something else here but I don’t know what it is,” X muses before popping the fork in his mouth.

The reaction is instantaneous. Viridian eyes light up like twin green stars. A noise that sounds suspiciously like static scatter out of X’s vocal box. He raises a hand to his cheek as it rolls slowly with his chewing.

“X…?” Zero prompts warily. If this "Crafty Polly" fed X something detestable...

_“It’s so good.”_

X’s beaming face is overwhelming; the Crimson Hunter’s eyes widen. A part of him is compelled to look away before his optics short-circuit out of his processor but the view is mesmerizing. His core _burns_.

Shamelessly, the Seventeenth Unit Leader sticks his fork out towards the warbot. “Zero, try some!”

Axl explodes into a hacking fit from the side.

Before X can question why the young reploid has developed muddled vents, Zero wordlessly bends his head and take a bite, determinedly ignoring the youngest Hunter.

 _Cobalt, berlinite, copper, zinc. Traces of potassium bitartrate._ There are more ingredients in this than what the human said.

Also, according to his systems, half of them are useless and will be processed without any meaningful return of essential nutrients. It’s as if his own body is scolding him for stuffing inefficient material into his construction.

Nonetheless, Zero categorizes the chemical combinations and the saccharine flavor into his “X likes it” mental list.

“I’ve never eaten anything like this before,” X continues, bounding in energy. “The texture is phenomenal. It’s crispy on the outside but it’s so soft in the inside. It reminds me of coolant cream and yet it tastes…bready?”

“Ah, that’s the maize,” Sumi smiles conspiratorially.

“Maize?” X startles. “As in the plant?”

“Yes! I'm sure you know that while reploids can eat organic foods, they can’t eat too much lest they clog their systems and potentially damage themselves. We wouldn't have a good image if our customers ended up in repair shops," she heartily laughs. "That's why it is South Pond’s concept to incorporate machine-friendly biofuels into our dishes. That way our reploid customers can enjoy a wide variety of tastes and textures without worry. We also serve high-scale human dishes as well, which makes us a perfect dining location for both humans and reploids together." 

“Humans and reploids together…” the Mega Man trails off meaningfully. His eyes shine, touched. “What an amazing dish and an amazing restaurant you’re part of! You called this a chrome cake? Is there more food like this?”

“Not gonna lie, but I’m surprised that you haven’t seen a chrome cake. You're acting like you've never seen reploid food,” Axl comments. 

“I do, but I didn’t know that reploid cuisine can be like this. It didn't seem that long ago when I first saw spark snacks and _those_ were considered profoundly innovative.”

X hesitates. “Actually, that was sometime before Doppler's Invasion. Has it really been that long? I’ve been so busy since then I didn’t realize…”

“X, eat more,” Zero commands quickly, derailing what could be a painful subject.

“Or else I’m going to steal the entire thing,” Axl jumps in. 

Promptly, X shovels in another bite. He practically squeals in delight, a noise Zero has never once heard the other Hunter make. The red combatdroid can only dumbly stare, mesmerized.

When was the last time he saw X look so unrestrainedly happy like that?

“Sumi, thank you so much for bringing this to me. To see so much care and artistry go into this, it’s truly one of the best gifts I’ve ever received.”

"It's absolutely my pleasure," Sumi says with a short bow. 

X’s face flowers into an open, unabashed smile. The kind of smile that Zero would begin and end wars for its sake. 

And it’s towards the human messenger.

“Please tell Crafty Polly that I love it.”

_Love._

Zero’s hand curls into a fist beneath the table.

* * *

“Axl, go away.”

“No. This is hilarious.”

“Palette, tell Axl to go away.”

“Even if I kick him out, he’ll breach security and come back from the ceiling,” the Navigator huffs, hands on her hips. “Like a batton. A creepy, ugly, malfunctioning batton.”

“Palette, you hurt me deep,” Axl replies dryly. “Also, why does she get to watch you fail and I can’t?”

“This is her lab,” answers Zero, not looking up from the Bunsen burner. “And your presence is a detriment.”

“And I think what he’s doing is really sweet, Axl,” Palette shoots back admonishingly.

“I only speak the truth," Axl says solemnly with one hand on his chest and his other hand in the air. "Zero’s good at two things: fighting and knowing things about X." A pause. "Except he only learned that X likes to eat food just last week. So he’s not that good at the latter after all.”

“Axl,” Zero warns.

“To be fair, X didn’t know that much about food either so you get a pass on that one. Man, he’s old. You’re both old.”

“Axl.”

“I’m just saying.”

The warbot shoots a glare, resuming back to his task of grinding bismuth oxide and iron oxide together in a mortar. ”There’s a container of paraffinum perliquidum next to you. Pass that and the micropipette to me,” he orders.

“Zero, not to discourage you, but why are you learning how to cook?” asks Palette, watching the Crimson Hunter delicately pour heated energen into a soft metal shell. “This is really complicated. Why don’t you just eat out?”

“He does,” Axl begins somberly like a grizzled veteran relegating his war story. “I was with him and X a couple days ago. The three of us went to Chomper’s at 46th and Jericho, and the chef? Was a mailman X saved a long time ago. He came out as our personal waiter and X sung poetry over his dumplings for ten minutes straight. I thought the chef was going to propose.”

The ex-bounty hunter sneaks a cautious glance at the red warbot, who’s drawing out the Z-Saber as a makeshift knife. It’s only after Zero finishes using his sword that Axl leans close to the Navigator, whispering as quietly as possible into her aural cone, “And if he did? I think X would have said yes.”

The beaker in Zero’s grip shatters. Glass shards scatter across the lab table.

Everyone stares.

“I’ll replace it,” the former Maverick says frostily, sweeping the glass to the nearest bin in a single arm sweep.

Palette swallows. The jealousy in the air is thick enough to clog vents. “We. We have a lot. It’s okay.”

“Is it ready yet?” whines Axl, disregarding the tension because the concept of potential bodily harm doesn’t faze him.

To his luck, the timer dings as if on cue and Zero refocuses again.

“Now it’s settled,” the warbot reports. He nudges the tray of cerulean tinted, silver half-moon solids towards the two shorter androids. The blues of the dumplings swirl lazily in the movement. 

Axl practically throws one into his mouth while Palette gingerly picks hers up, studying it under the fluorescent lighting. “The color is a little off from the pictures,” she observes.

“Just eat it,” Axl chews noisily. “Are you seriously going to nitpick over colors?”

“Reploid cooking is like baking, and baking is a science. Science must be exact. But, if you haven’t exploded yet it must be safe for consumption.”

“Gee, aren’t you supportive.”

“I said that the gesture is sweet, not that it’s guaranteed to be a success. You can’t expect much from a first attempt. No offense,” Palette ticks at the end towards the taller Hunter.

“Say that after you taste this. Surprisingly, not a complete failure, Zero. It’s almost exactly like the one we had at the restaurant,” Axl pipes up with an angled thumbs-up.

“Almost. So it’s not a success,” Zero notes, glancing at the half-hearted gesture.

“The more you chew it, the worse it gets. It was good for the first two seconds but then the flavor went away around the end,” explains Axl. He reaches for another dumpling and takes an experimental bite. “Yup, same thing happened.”

Zero tries a dumpling and stills. He then rips open another dumpling, waits for two seconds then eats it.

“It’s the heat,” he realizes. “It disappears too quickly. Once it cools down, the energen no longer amplify the flavor of the fulscaris.” 

“Flavor retention only while hot. If you did the electromagnetic radiation step properly, the energen should have kept its heat as long as you don’t keep it exposed to oxygen for too long,” Palette offers, chewing contemplatively. 

“I had to modify that step because I had to change the step before that one,” confesses Zero, displeased. “It required an anti-griddle but I didn’t have one at hand. I used a flash freeze sample spray instead.”

“So you had uneven temperatures," Palette understands. “I have to say, if all reploid recipes need extravagant appliances like this, reploid cooking is quite inaccessible. Professional cooking must be so elitist,” she harrumphs. Her soft features scrunch together as she peruses the basic, dumpling-forming method on her datapad once more. “You wouldn’t be able to make this dish without half the tools that’s needed here. Like, who just has a vacuum oven in their unit?”

“You do. Zero used it,” points out Axl.

“Mine’s small and it’s typically used to incubate samples as intended, thank you very much,” Palette sniffs. “It cost nearly 1,900,000 zennies. Do you think reploid apartments these days just come with lab equipment? No. They come with fuel storage for your energen if they’re halfway decent. If reploids want to have edible fuel that’s not an E-Tank, they’d have to buy all this stuff to make it,” she punctuates, tapping the datapad with the back of her hand.

“Using a research development lab as a kitchen wasn’t ideal to begin with,” Zero huffs frustratedly through his nose. Yes, a Hunter can theoretically swing a buster around to pummel down Mavericks, but that doesn’t make it an effective blunt weapon compare to a crash hammer.

“I’m sure X would appreciate the effort,” says Palette slowly after a long, quiet moment.

Axl also lets out a sigh, scratching his hair. “Yeah, you know X _._ It doesn’t have to be SA-Rank cooking to make him happy."

Zero closes his eyes, simply imagining it. Him handing his subpar offering to X. Even in his mind's eye, X is smiling with a quiet joy from receiving a gift from a friend.

Except...it wouldn’t be _that_ smile. The one he makes whenever he consumes something so delicious that he looks a little helpless, as if someone seized the joy straight from his core. 

Zero wants that. This mediocre effort isn't good enough.

As if reading Zero's thoughts, Axl adds, "Honestly, kudos for making this. It's a lot of steps. How about making something easier like, I don't know, a pie? No one’s expecting you to be super fancy like a Knife Edge champion.”

“…Knife Edge?” echoes Zero.

"Oh slag, that's right," Axl laughs. "You don't watch TV." 

With an impish grin, he swipes the datapad from Palette, who squawks indignantly. “Hey!”

“Figures you don’t know about it,” the redhead remarks, ignoring the punches on his back and the, “Rude! Who said you could take my pad from me like that? At least ask for permission before you take my stuff! Hey, are you listening to me?! _Axl!”_

“It’s this cooking show where all the contestants are these amateur reploid cooks.” The sharpshooter pulls up a video online and flips the screen for Zero to see. “Oh, this one’s awesome. It’s a team battle in one of the judges' restaurant.”

Zero squints. “…There’s a waiter in the background who looks like you.”

Axl cackles. “Because it _is_ me! Okay okay, story time. So when I was with Red Alert, we had to trail this mob boss to the restaurant _\- and Knife Edge was doing a fragging filming there._ That’s how I first knew about the show. Anyways, we had no idea this was gonna happen so Splash Warfly and I had to pretend to be part of the staff for six hours straight because we couldn’t just off a guy on live television. The judges are awesome, they yell at everyone. Fritz, they yelled at Splash because he knocked a human over with his wing and broke a wine glass over her head! It was bolts. It was the best thing ever.”

The Crimson Hunter stares blankly, clearly disinterested.

Axl deflates. “Oh, and one of the judges is Crafty Polly aka the bot that made X’s cake.”

Blue eyes sharpen. Axl rolls his own in return, grousing, “Yeesh you’re typical.”

Giving up, Palette ineffectually dope slaps the back of Axl’s head before walking over to Zero’s side to watch the video with him.

She throws her hands in the air. “Look at that kitchen! Those are cryovacs! Ion fusion plates too? _At every single station?_ ” She’s nearly tearing her antennas out in fury. “Ugh, and theirs the latest RS-Tikko 1800 series! What a load of scrap, they have more funding than we do!”

“Does that mean the Hunters wouldn’t be able to acquire the appropriate materials?” asks Zero.

The petite researcher shakes her head. “We’ve been in peacetime long enough that the Council cut our budget…” She looks like she doesn’t know whether to be happy or disappointed in that. The Crimson Hunter knows the feeling.

Then Axl pumps his fist in the air. “Frag the government!”

“The Maverick Hunters _are_ government workers,” snaps Palette.

Axl drops his fist. “Oh yeah. Sometimes I forget that I’m officially employed. Speaking of which, Zero, you’ve been a Hunter since forever. Why don’t _you_ buy everything? You get paid too, don’t you?”

Zero looks away. “I do but I don’t have enough in my account to buy the equipment.”

Jaws dropping, Axl throws his head back and unleashes a dramatic, drawn-out moan. Covering his face with his hands, he speaks in a pained voice, “Our Unit Leaders don’t get paid enough. I can’t believe it. Why did I join the good guys. I should have stayed as a bounty hunter.”

Palette sharply elbows him on the side.

“I make automatic payments to nonprofit pandemic resource organizations,” Zero explains. His eyes take on a softer look. “X gives his money to causes he believe in. I followed suit.”

“And now you have no money to make X decent dumplings. Nice,” says Axl bluntly.

Zero twitches subtly.

Idly, the redhead leans against a desk, gesticulating offhandedly at the datapad. “Well, that’s it. It takes fancy stuff to make fancy fuel. Unless you’re seriously packing a lot of zenny, I don’t think you can make food like _that_ for X.”

“…Or I can join Knife Edge and use their equipment.”

“Or you can join Knife Edge and use – wait. What.”

Palette raises a finger. “I second that. What.”

“This company has everything I need. It’s more efficient and convenient to use their resources instead of making arrangements here at Base. I’ll make a request,” declares Zero matter-of-factly, cleaning his station as if what he just said wasn’t the most ridiculous leap of logic ever. With the calm attitude of someone who’s used to slicing down any obstacle between himself and his prerogative. 

“Zero,” Palette starts unsure. “I don’t think…“

Axl throws his arm in front of her. “Let him do it."

Bewildered, Palette stares at him, silently demanding an explanation.

“It doesn’t hurt if he tries. At worst, they reject him and he does the boring route. Like saving money up like a normal person and get a kitchen,” says Axl, sounding vaguely disgusted at the concept.

“And at best, Zero participates in a reality TV cooking show contest and is subject to public humiliation,” Palette completes. 

“Look me in the eye, Palette,” Axl surges with the passion of a dying man making his final wish. “Look me in the eye and tell me you don’t want to see that.”

In her defense, Palette takes a considerable effort to answer. Hanging her head, she cries a mournfully honest, _“I do.”_

* * *

In general, Zero has no interest in the entertainment industry let alone its inner workings. He does not know the process, the sheer amount of time and labor that goes into the set-up, the bureaucracy - everything. 

He simply types in “Knife Edge apply” in the search bar, clicks the first result, and reads the instructions.

There are two ways to apply: the first choice is to pre-register a profile and pick an open call location in advance. Fill out the provided application and bring it along with a dish to the open call.

The second choice is to fill out the application and submit a video a maximum of ten minutes that gives a sense of the applicant’s identity. This includes an introduction (name, town of residence, current occupation), hobbies, a tour of the applicant’s living unit, a display of cooking skills – the list of suggestions goes on and on.

According to the website, the first choice is preferable. Zero goes for the second choice anyway because it’s convenient for him.

The Zeroth Unit Leader had done introductory routines many times when he mentored Hunter recruits and so he finishes filming within thirty minutes. Zero sends his application and his video to the provided email and gets ready for patrol.

On the other side of Abel City, Jordan Mclldon sits on the couch in his humble studio apartment, laptop on his thighs as a murder mystery series he’s not paying attention to plays on the TV, serving as background noise. He receives the fourteenth email notification in the past two minutes in his work account as he scrolls through Chirper trends.

Normally he’d ignore the notification. He’d open the email in the morning, scrub through the video if there is one, and nine times out of ten, copy and paste an apologetic response template to the rejected applicant.

But his eyes flit to the notification by reflex. He sees the “@maverickhunters.org” email domain and his cursor hovers to it automatically, snorting. This can be fun.

He clicks on it and immediately starts up the video.

“I’m Zero and I reside in the Maverick Hunters Headquarters in Abel City,” says the person on the screen who Jordan is very, _very_ aware is a national hero.

Before the man can wonder if this is either an extremely well done prank, such as a put-together montage of clips and audio editing, or an elaborately done cosplay - Zero’s voice goes on. ”For security purposes, I can only show designated areas that civilians are allowed to see within Base.”

The camera then follows Zero through the front entrance of the unmistakable, Maverick Hunters Headquarters and into the impossibly clean, spacious lobby. The receptionist and security guards nod in acknowledgement, the Maverick Hunters symbol blazoned on their uniformed armors, as the red robot strides pass the screening process like a walk in a park.

Jordan nearly spits out his pineapple juice. He transfers the laptop onto his coffee table in case he breaks it.

“No way,” he whispers.

“To my knowledge, I do not have any sibling units,” Zero continues like he expects his audience to not know who he is. “I do have friends though some are not here right now. X is on patrol – “

“OH MY GOD.” Jordan drags his hands down his hair. “OH MY GOD. NO WAY. NO WAY.”

It’s Zero. It’s really Zero. Who’s explaining how he doesn’t really have a hobby, but he excels in combat and he’s demonstrating it by marching into a sparring ring and putting a reploid in a freaking armlock. Who’s signaling the camera to stop recording, flashing to the next shot where he’s in what looks like an actual lab.

He’s laying out numerous metals on the counter and pouring minerals on separate glass plates, naming each ingredient.

Then he turns on a Bunsen burner.

Jordan is neither part of the tiny cyborg minority nor has any augmentations. He’s one hundred percent human like the majority of the population, and he has not once eaten any reploid fuel. No matter how visually pleasing they can be, consuming reploid food is as stupidly suicidal as chugging bleach.

But he’s been part of Knife Edge's staff since the show’s conception. He’s seen more than enough reploid cooking to recognize someone who knows what they’re doing from someone who doesn’t. For someone who’s substituting a reploid kitchen for a lab, Zero seems to be doing pretty hunky dory: he’s melting and mixing alloys, pouring them into a cylinder mold, and…

Jordan’s jaw drops when Zero pulls out what is an honest to god saber to slice whatever-the-hell-log he just made on a cutting board (that’s probably wasn’t meant to be used as a cutting board – most likely intended to make aircraft engines, hell, Jordan doesn’t know and he doesn’t care. _He’s not even sure he’s awake and not dreaming_ ) _._ Each slice reveals a gleaming multi-layered solid concoction melded neatly together with heat. Zero takes three slices and arranges them in a fallen domino effect across a glass plate.

“Is he? Oh god, he is,” Jordan mumbles to himself as he watches Zero whip out an angle grinder. “He’s making swarf and he’s crushing it in a mortar. Son of a bitch is making his own seasoning.”

After sprinkling some of the sparkling seasoning across the top of dish, Zero displays it to the camera. “A terrine,” he declares. It's perfect like a picture. 

He puts it away and faces the screen directly. “This lab does not belong to me. I do not have a pantry to show and I do not have any favorite ingredients. I do not have a personal philosophy in cooking though I do strive for efficiency. There are ingredients in the terrine that I substituted to be more useful. Otherwise, there isn’t a style of cooking I’m attached to.”

It takes a moment for Jordan to realize that Zero is literally answering Knife Edge’s suggested video questions in numerical order. He barks out a hysterical laugh. God, how is this real?

“I personally do not have any resources that can allow me to create more dishes. Therefore, I request to utilize Knife Edge’s equipment until I can acquire my own.”

Then the video goes to black. 

…That’s it? No attempts to persuade the viewer why Zero should be chosen for Knife Edge? No passionate spiel of why he cooks or how winning Knife Edge can change everything for him? Nothing?

Calming down, Jordan sinks back into his couch, pensive. 

Jordan is one of the first line examiners for Knife Edge, the latest “Most Popular Reality Program” Logas Awards recipient. He receives and rejects thousands of applications every season. He chooses his hundred from the masses, who will go on to meet the second line examiners and undergo intense questioning, testing, and contract signings - who will _then_ go on to weeks of tryouts with coordinators whose jobs is to select potential contestants with the most telegenic qualities. Finally, the auditions with the judges begin, which doesn’t guarantee a seat in the competition.

The industry starves for Individuals who can be packaged into convenient characters. Large personalities and larger vulnerabilities. Comedy and drama. Zero made no attempt to be anything more than who he is and if he were any other person, his application would have been instantly trashed.

It is precisely because Zero is Zero - the Crimson Hunter, the Red Ripper, the war hero who fights side by side with the prestigious Mega Man X – that Jordan forwards the email straight to his supervisor with the following:

_“I’m going to be honest, I'm not thinking about his cooking. Just imagine how awesome it would be for Zero to be in the show even if it’s for the audition episode. Think of the ratings.”_

Because Zero has no understanding of the entertainment industry, he has no idea that the program was on their final filtering stage and that a somewhat promising candidate was booted off to make room for him. Unbeknownst to him, he has skipped over at least four grueling weeks of psychological trials enacted by ruthless sadists whose job descriptions involve breaking down candidates. According to scheduling protocol, Zero should technically be on the list in the next season instead of being slotted in last minute for this weekend’s filming for the brand-new season. All because his cameo was too good to pass up.

However, even if anyone told Zero any of this, he would not care.

The next morning the warbot wakes up a congratulatory reply that he’s made it to the auditions. It comes with a set of instructions of what to bring to the tryouts.

Zero prepares.

* * *

“Signas, I’m using all of my leave days starting Saturday,” Zero brooks in. It’s less of a request and more of a demand.

The Commander of the Maverick Hunters glances up from the email that Zero just sent. He leans forward on the desk, fingers steepled in front of him. “This is the auditions. It doesn’t mean you will pass and become a contestant.”

“I’m aware. In case I do though, I’m applying all my accumulated vacation time for the duration of the program.”

Signas’ demeanor twists in concern. “It’s one thing to let you go for the weekend. It’s another if it’s consecutive weeks on straight. Maverick activity may be at its lowest, but you may potentially put the people around you in danger if you go.” Every Hunter has a target on their back. Zero of all people should know it. 

“X is back in active duty. Without him, there’s Axl and the current Hunters. The Base is secured.”

“I don’t mean us. I’m referring to the other people in the program. If anyone decides to target you, they’ll be at risk. I have no doubt in your abilities, but the other contestants are only civilians. There's so many of them and there's going to be one of you.”

"You believe they won't have their own security?"

"I believe what they have won't be enough."

Because if there are Mavericks who believe they're capable enough to take on Zero, the average security reploid would be nothing.

“Then bringing another Hunter as back-up should be sufficient,” Zero nods. “I’ll ask X.”

“No, you can’t have X,” the Commander responds tiredly. “Even if he says yes.”

Zero crosses his arms. “I’m not taking Axl either. I’m going to delegate him as my second while I’m away.”

Not to mention Axl can impede his focus. While the SA-Rank Hunter can remain on task no matter how harsh the conditions, he knows better than to underestimate the redhead's talent to be incorrigibly distracting.

“Unless it’s a high-scale emergency, my missions can go to him. He needs the training anyway.”

Signas refrains from pinching his nose bridge. The fact that it doesn’t once cross Zero’s mind that the Commander can reject him and say _no, you’re not going on the show_ speaks volumes. Zero is so set to be on the program that to him it’s inevitable.

It might as well be. 

“Why do you want to be on the show so much?”

“I don’t. I want to use their kitchen.”

“Their kitchen,” Signas repeats. “Your goal is to simply…cook.”

“With the state-of-the-art culinary facilities, yes.”

“Why.” The billion zenny question.

Zero stares. “The lab is not suited for cooking,” he enunciates carefully as if Signas’s RAM is slow.

“Why do you want to cook?” Signas clarifies calmly.

While Signas isn’t against Zero taking up a hobby, it’s still Zero. Without knowing the combatdroid personally, Signas can skim through his personality profile and still confidently claim that this isn’t characteristic of him.

Then: “High quality reploid cuisine is expensive.”

Taking Signas’ bemused silence as an order to continue, Zero elaborates. “Top class reploid restaurants charge somewhere between 30,000 to 70,000 zennies per customer. Long-term, it is not feasible to keep eating out.”

“Understandable,” Signas agrees slowly. Unlike humans who need so many different nutrients to be healthy, reploids only need an E-Tank and a proper recharge to sufficiently function. In that sense, reploid food is pure luxury and is priced as such. But what does that have to do with - 

Zero’s eyes flash. “X will confront the decision to keep donating or fuel his hobby. Knowing X, he’ll give up his hobby. However, if I can cook to that standard, it won’t be necessary. I need to acquire a kitchen but it demands up-front costs that I do not have now. I plan to use Knife Edge’s resources until then.”

Ah. There it is.

 _Of course it involves X_ , Signas thinks wryly. He jots down a mental note to update Zero's profile.

Wait. Could it be Zero is planning to…

The Commander shakes his head. No. Not his business unless it becomes his business.

Speaking of business.

“We are in peacetime,” Signas concedes, rerailing the conversation. "I still want to keep our bases covered, however. It may seem excessive but I rather we have contingency plans instead of having potential collateral. Am I clear?”

He hopes he is. Signas may be the Commander, but Zero has been a Hunter for much longer than the younger robot has functioned. Not once has Signas thought he has complete authority over the Red Ripper. 

“Yes,” the Zeroth Unit Leader agrees.

“Good because I have a couple suggestions that we can discuss..."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because this is a reality TV show fic, I'm writing it in the format of watching an episode. I hope it comes across well enough!

They arrive to the sidewalk café at a relaxed, lazy hour that’s long after the lunch rush. Zero and X enter as the final customers walk out, X giving a polite smile to acknowledge the stares on the way in and Zero ignoring them entirely. The Elite Unit Leader beelines to the table by the window as he’s prone to do whenever it’s available, fond of peoplewatching.

As a passive tagalong, Zero has always let X ordered for the two of them because the warbot had no preference. As always, X orders a full course for them to share: the “Bubble Burster” starter, teelium pizza, and reploid ice cream.

X has constantly sought out to try new experiences and tends to react favorably to _every_ new dish he tries. This isn’t the first time they’ve had reploid ice cream before and Zero dials up his observation settings higher once the lemon yellow coolant dessert arrives to their table.

Hybrid organic acid type. Does X have a favorite?

He watches X intently as the other Hunter take a modest bite.

“How is it?” the combatdroid asks.

“It’s good,” X answers with a smile. It’s the kind that shows X is simply satisfied but no more. Not particularly special then.

Zero takes a spoonful, to which his systems yell at him for ingesting the _practically foamy coolant, which means its properties are so reduced it’s a waste of space, how dare he clog his flawless construction with this nonsense -_

For the hundredth time, Zero tells his own systems to shut up.

“Do you not like it?”

The warbot looks up questioningly.

“You look like you’re interrogating the ice cream, Zero,” X says around his own spoon.

“It’s not as good as the one we had at Coil and Chill,” Zero says though to him it doesn’t make that much difference. He only brings up the name of that specific café because X practically melted when he ate the ice cream from there, a more favorable reaction than the one the Blue Bomber just gave. 

“Coil and Chill’s ice cream was very soft,” X nods agreeably, grinning widely for someone who’s eating a lower rate dessert. “The flavor was surprising too. It was a little salty, but I liked it. This one is a bit _too_ sweet.”

 _Similar amounts of silicates and the key components are the same,_ Zero studies thoughtfully, reviewing the analyzed ingredients once more. _There may be a difference in charge as well. If it’s too sweet…_

Then he gets it; higher amounts of indium and propylene glycol. The metal and the organic compound balanced each other’s respective flavor properties but overwhelmed the rest of the ingredients. Zero files that piece of information away.

“Would you say that was your favorite ice cream then?” he inquires.

“So far it’s the one I enjoyed most.”

Zero rests his elbows on the table, the new position allowing him to lean a little closer. “Do you have other favorites?”

“Favorite ice creams?”

“Favorite dishes in general.”

“I don’t think I have a favorite. There’s a lot that I’ve eaten I enjoyed like the mica chips at the Lil’ Brekky. Oh, the Five Lions’ dim sums tasted fantastic and each one looked like a flower…'”

As X recalls every outstanding dish imprinted in his memory, eyes gleaming with sincerity, the warbot’s determination sharpens.

Within and outside of Abel City, there are hundreds of potential Knife Edge contestants who are avidly practicing. They’re creating and recreating their prized dishes, painstakingly dissecting their work for any inferiorities to correct. They strive to be accepted, to compete, to be worthy.

Zero is not one of them. The warbot is aware that even if he passes, there’s only so much time he’ll be able to stay on the show. He must maximize his stay and access Knife Edge’s opulent kitchens while he can. Every day the number of reploid dishes grows and Zero needs to narrow down the list of potential dishes he can make.

Or, the list of dishes that has left an impression on the blue robot before him.

_I’ll make every single one of them._

* * *

Knife Edge auditions are held over the duration of three days from Friday to Sunday.

Zero is told that he’s scheduled to arrive to the auditions on the last day and to come prepared. He gets his paperwork in order, notifies Layer to pass any site area emergencies to Axl if they occur, and requests the more difficultly attained metals from Palette. Because the email said that there will be a prep kitchen provided, Zero takes an unused, black bag from the armory (because he personally doesn’t own one) to carry his ingredients and walks out of Base before the sun rises.

The address is northeast of Abel City, past the mountainous hills and far enough from Central Abel that its trademark skyscrapers and floating highways haven’t crowded the sky here. The buildings are more spread out, longer and wider and closer to earth.

Zero thinks if anyone bombed this area, overall collateral wouldn’t be as bad as it would be in downtown.

Zero parks his Chase Rider in a sprawling lot next to a cluster of pale clay walled and grey roofed studio warehouses plastered with multistory movie advertisements. He’s already sensing numerous Substantial threats from one direction, meaning that’s where all the activity and therefore people are gathering. He confirms with the GPS that his destination is over there as well and starts walking.

The red android arrives to very back of a small yet quickly growing crowd of diverse reploids chatting and waiting paces away from a pair of stanchion posts, manned with uniformed security guards. They’re blocking the way to the opening made by makeshift walls out of gargantuan, metal crate stacks. They tower high enough that if Flame Mammoth was still functioning, he wouldn’t be able to see the top of them without effort. Essentially, it’s all crowd controlling measures leading into the studio warehouse; an outdoor waiting lobby.

There’s a film crew stationed at the perimeter, mics and cameras on standby. A couple cameramen are already doing pan shots of the crowd. Zero notices that one of them is lingering on his figure.

Zero makes sure to keep his distance away from the other candidates.

Though he enters from far behind, several reploids have already noticed him and freeze. Little by little, whatever nervous and exuberant conversations anyone was having either dies, traded for hushed exchanges.

“That’s Zero, right?” Zero hears someone say tentatively.

“Yeah. What’s he’s doing here?”

“Bolts, do you think he’s auditioning? But I haven’t seen him once during the early tryouts. Have you?”

He’s receiving too much attention and combat mode stirs at that despite him, piqued; to be fair, Zero normally receives that much focus when Mavericks are trying to kill him.

Zero already did a general survey for any potential threat, which he’s prone to do, but this time he thoroughly scans every reploid within vicinity: there’s a butterfly insectaloid who’s equipped with rubber insulation material and a bulky left arm with twin probes for a hand (like a stun gun; electric element). A teal and green humanoid is taking out a roll bag from their suitcase, checking their impressive collection of knives. The purple pig animaloid close to the security guards is big enough to crush someone by lying on top of them. 

Zero readjusts his hold on his bag, something for his arm to do that’s _not_ turning into a buster amongst civilians. He maintains his composure.

“Maybe the Maverick Hunters are part of the security?”

“There’s already security guards over by the front though. Also, isn’t it a tad strange to see only Zero? Where’s the rest of them?”

“Oh smelt me, do you think…”

“What?”

“Do you think he’s here for a job? Like something dangerous is going to happen and he’s waiting for it?

“You mean…a Maverick attack?”

A tense ripple goes through the crowd.

Before Zero considers the merit of informing the crowd that he is, indeed, here to participate - because civilians have a habit to act stupid when they panic - a reploid, who looks like she could be pouring buckets if she had sweat ducts, starts power-walking away. She notably takes the long route to avoid being close to Zero back to the parking lot.

As if she started a trend, a couple reploids, frozen in indecision, have seemed to finally made up their minds. They’re sending out messages and apologizing to the surrounding bemused staff, leaving one by one from the square lot, conspicuously walking in every other direction that’s away from Zero.

The Maverick Hunter blinks.

*

“- and that’s how I knew that this is when the competition really starts. They were leaving from the pressure alone!” guffaws Purple Hog, slapping his knee. His chair complains and he fidgets in place. He can’t seem to get comfortable. “Hey, do you have a bigger chair? I’ve got six heavy duty subtanks and this seat’s not doing it for me.”

“Sorry, it’s only for now,” the interviewer apologizes. “Also, do you mind not leaning too far back? You’ll bump into the greenscreen and we’ll have to retake that shot.”

“Tch, Knife Edge better get a bigger booth soon. Float Butterfly’s in and she’s got a real set of wings on her.”

“Don’t worry. Once we transfer to the official studio, we do our confessionals in the pantry and it’s a lot more spacious. This one is only temporary.”

“Good to know.” The chair beneath Purple Hog shrills unhappily when he shifts his weight again. The resulting squeak is embarrassingly long and high pitch like a balloon deflating. “…Can you cut that part off?”

“…As you were saying, contestants were dropping out right before the auditions began.”

“Yeah,” Purple Hog grunts. “Some of the ‘droids around me were dropping lug nuts because Zero was there.”

“Did they see Zero as a threat?”

“More like, they thought a Maverick was here! Stupid, the lot of them. If there was a Maverick, they’d have us evacuated. Zero rubs me the wrong way but he did make it easier for me.”

“Easier for you? Like how?”

“He filtered the chumps real good,” Purple Hog grunts. “I heard from someone in the staff that the judges see around a hundred ‘droids in each audition day. Each candidate gets five minutes to plate, then the judges eat and give feedback for a couple minutes, and they all do this back to back for every bot, straight on ten to twelve hours of nonstop filming. They were right: I counted a hundred bots ready to cook for their lives until Zero showed up. He scared a third of them off away - ten minutes before they let us in to the kitchen! _The auditions didn’t even begin!_ Would have been mighty useful if he was in my tryouts station. There were three hundred of us there and he could have sped it all up…”

“But you weren’t scared.”

“Of course not! The ones who left early were idiots! Maverick Hunter, Maverick – what’s a ‘droid’s business in Knife Edge if it’s not cooking? That’s what matters to me. I don’t care if you’re Doppler or Sigma himself. _No one_ was going to stop me from getting inside that kitchen.”

*

Proximity sensors ringing, Zero is the first to look to look at the warehouse’s rooftop before anyone else. Seconds later, a swan animaloid soars up behind it, white metal wings shining under the sun, spraying reflections across the crowd like a passing spotlight.

“Hellooooo everyone!” she booms from the air, flapping in place. “I’m Swell Swan and congratulations for coming this far! You are the top, one hundred home chefs across the entire nation!”

One hundred? Either Swell Swan can’t count or she’s playing up the dramatics. Including Zero, there’s seventy-four reploids left.

She dives down into the crowd, startling a couple reploids as she comes close. “Ha hah, where’s your energy? It’s the final day of the auditions! Are you bots here for a funeral or for a competition?” she goads.

Swell Swan rises back in a graceful loop, landing daintily on top of a stack of crates next to the red ropes. “You were handpicked by our tasters and examiners to be this nations’ next potential Knife Edge Survivor. You were here for a reason. Now, if you’ve come to get the Knife - make some noise!”

Zero watches stoically as the rest of the crowd applaud and cheer, energy levels bounding back up.

“That’s more like it! The judges are right inside - start moving!”

On cue, the security guards take down the red ropes.

The reploids near the very front start dashing, roller cases jumping at every pebble and bump they hit, whooping excitedly as they charge in. The lax reploids steadily follow them. Zero moves only when the last reploids pass into the walled path.

Zero is stopped by the guards at the opening.

“Bag check,” one of them grunts.

“You didn’t check the other bags,” remarks Zero, but he swings the bag around for their convenience. 

“The other bags aren’t like the ones you got,” the guard grunts, unruffled.

True. Zero is the only one carrying a tactical gun shooting range duffle (which, retrospectively, that may be another reason he was receiving looks).

The combatdroid hides a frown. The concern is justified but it comes along with the troubling implication that the security is severely underequipped. Commander Signas may have a point after all.

“You wouldn’t need to do this if you had scanners,” supplies Zero with barely suppressed disapproval.

“You’re right,” the guard agrees amiably. Instead of inspecting the contents, he pulls the sides widely as if to show them off to the world. “But any shot could be a money shot.”

That’s when Zero registers the soft, telltale whirring of a camera zooming in from the side.

“Just ingredients?” Swell Swan sniffs from her place on top of the crates, a swift change in attitude from cheerleader to ratings chaser. “You’re a Maverick Hunter, couldn’t you have a couple grenades in there? We could have done something like energen, iron, fulscaris, energen – GRENADE!” she cries out in affected shock, instantly returning back to nonchalant, “salt, magnesium, energen. Would have been a good comedic moment.”

“…I wouldn’t be cooking with grenades,” says Zero slowly, suddenly intrigued with the concept. 

The guards laughs. “I don’t think anyone can top last season’s, Swan. That beaver was something.”

“Fair enough,” Swell Swan shrugs. “Wipe what I said. Sorry for holding you, you should hurry in.” She doesn’t sound apologetic at all.

The guard hands the bag back to the befuddled warbot. He leans close, whispering, “Zero, I respect you and the work you do. But if you can’t cook for scrap, you’re going to have to ‘show more personality,’” he emphasizes meaningfully, “or else you won’t make it midway into the show. Cause some drama.”

“Understood,” Zero replies without actually understanding anything because he’s not quite sure what’s going on and he can care less. He’s here to cook and that’s all there is to it.

The warehouse is all theatrical lighting and shadowy corners, making the large space appear even larger. Zero makes it back to the crowd right when he hears, “ – sands of cooks applied. Where they failed, you succeeded!”

The auditionees applaud, fists pumping and hands clapping, some hopping up and down in excitement.

There’s three reploids standing on the low stage standing before three stands, presumably relevant to Knife Edge: a short, voluminous reploid equipped with a horned helmet, a white armor with irregular black pattern dotted all over them, and a pink apron. Next to them is a dark blue aquatic animaloid who looks like Volt Catfish without the power generators. Finally, a reploid dressed in a suit, appearing completely human save for their needle-like hands.

Zero knows that animaloid: he saw her from the video Axl showed him.

Crafty Polly, the chef who gave X that chrome cake.

_I need to get on her level._

“But there can only be one Knife Edge Survivor!” the black and white reploid declares.

Crafty Polly snaps her webbed fingers together and three crewmen walk onstage with boxes, laying them on top of the podiums before returning to the shadows.

“And only the Survivor can win…” The first judge lifts the box with flair. “Fifty million zennies!”

The crowd goes wild. Zero acknowledges the appeal; with that much money, even if Zero doesn’t buy a kitchen, he can buy X all the meals the Blue Bomber can ever desire for a long time.

“There’s a lot you can do with money and that is a _lot_ of money,” the suited judge starts. “But money is fleeting. It comes and goes. There’s plenty of ways to make cash and if you came to Knife Edge for that, you’re a fool. What’s harder to earn is the prestige.” They lift their box, revealing a plain covered book with a scarlet K emblazoned on it. “Your signature recipes, your name, your face, on a cookbook. You can make history by becoming a pioneer of reploid cuisine.”

The room roars with approval but Zero finds that prize completely undesirable. More fame, more attention, more enemies - and the Red Ripper has all three. If anything, Zero needs less.

“But to have it all and more, you need what’s under this box,” says Crafty Polly, lifting hers. Within is a small case, which she opens slowly and lovingly and raises it for everyone to see.

A knife-shaped trophy made of a silver-white metal Zero doesn’t recognize.

 _“_ The Knife,” Crafty Polly says reverently. _“This_ is what will establish you in the reploid culinary world forever. It doesn’t matter if you were a farmhand, a motel manager or an electrician. That’s the old you! By the end of this season, only one reploid is going to earn this. You’re on the knife’s edge – can you handle it?!”

“YES!” the crowd shouts back.

The judges move to the side and the stage background reveals to be a pair of obscure large doors, parting dramatically slow. Theater smoke roll out, close to the ground.

Twenty stainless steel, commercial reploid kitchen stations with all the equipment Zero ever needs.

_Finally._

*

“I was so busy going bolts because Mama Moo was _right there_ in front of me _,”_ cries out Lodz. “I was closest to the stage and I was paying _zilch_ attention. Then someone handed me a number and Veed went ‘YOU HAVE AN HOUR TO COOK FOR YOUR LIFE!’” she suddenly raises her voice, “and nineteen other bots charged pass me and I was like…SMELT ME, THEY STARTED, AND I’M PART OF THE FIRST LINEUP! AHHHHHH- ‘”

A couple cameramen snigger, careful to keep it quiet for the mics. Lodz is incredibly expressive. 

The slender blue and white reploid groans at the ceiling. “I lost ten minutes for that, and then I lost _another_ ten minutes because I was going through the equipment and I didn’t know _half_ of what they were and what they do so I tried to look it up – but the search wouldn’t load!”

“Because you didn’t know there was a comm shield up,” the interviewer smiles.

 _“Because I didn’t know there was a comm shield up,”_ Lodz repeats. Then she hesitates, blinking profusely. “There was a comm shield up? Ohhhhh, that explains everything. I thought my communications grid decided to fritz!”

“Since you were staring at Mama Moo, you probably didn’t hear Crafty Polly going over the rules,” the interviewer teases lightly. “We turn on the signal jammers during the challenges so the cooks can’t look up the recipes.”

“Ah! That makes sense.”

“Right? Besides, if you’re Knife Edge material, you’d have a personal recipe or two to prepare for the judges.”

*

“I don’t have a personal recipe,” answers Zero, popping the vials open and pouring the ingredients into separate measuring glasses. This kitchen station has a lot more space and a lot less clutter than Palette’s worktable. He’s going to take full advantage of it.

“You don’t?” the interviewer exclaims. “Then what are you making? Are you improvising?”

Zero ducks down (standard pantry cabinets and storage, oven, mini refrigerator), moves away to review the equipment on the metal shelving racks (pots, pats, siphons, mixers, fusion plates, something that, according to Zero’s database, are similar to sand rammers?) and the large amenities next to them (muffle furnace, blast freezer, blast chiller, industrial microwave, forced convection oven – Palette has the previous model of that one).

“Are you seriously going at this with no plan?” the interviewer continues, the film crew still vexingly hovering around Zero’s station. “You are one of the hundred home cooks here to impress three of the top chefs in the country – “

“Sixty-eight,” Zero corrects idly, reaching for a tabletop furnace kiln and an automatic stirrer. “There’s sixty-eight now.”

“They’re dropping out faster this time,” a cameraman whispers, to which the gaffer smacks him.

 _“Anyways,”_ the interviewer continues as if nothing happened. “You’re competing against so many other reploids to impress the top chefs in the country. Coming here without a battle plan is quite a daring endeavor. I find that hard to believe.”

Zero pauses on that. A competition _is_ technically a battle…

Combat mode happily suggests that if Zero terminates everyone, technically he wins by default. Zero shoots back that this isn’t that kind of battle.

“In fact, you must have some idea what you’re making, right?” the interviewer tries again a little desperately. “You brought your own ingredients. You even brought…” Squint. “A tub of cornmeal?”

Zero lets the sink faucet run into a cup. “I’m making tacos.”

X has been on a taco spree recently, which means Zero _will_ make a taco.

Save for the background murmur of clanking pots and hissing flames, Zero’s station falls silent.

“…You’re going to present the judges with…a taco.”

“Yes.”

“…Are you going to do anything fancy with the taco? A reimagined taco perhaps?” the interviewer encourages.

Intrigued, Zero perks up. “What’s a reimagined taco?” That sounds like something X would like.

“You tell me.”

“I’m asking you,” Zero asks seriously, maintaining eye contact like a hitman negotiating bounty prices while handling a dainty, mini cube mold tray.

“I don’t know, I’m not the cook here.”

Not helpful.

Disappointed, the warbot huffs, dropping interest in the subject in favor for making dough. The contents will be simple enough, it’s the tortilla that’ll give Zero some trouble. The one X loved was mostly organic but Zero remembered analyzing gold, likely 24 carat gold leaf since that’s the kind humans use, but he’s not sure what the other organic components were, if there were any. His construction wasn’t designed to expect the consumption of organic foods and thus it’s the one thing he can’t easily analyze at the spot.

Whatever the case, Zero has forty-five minutes left and it’ll take fifteen to thirty minutes for the dough to rise, but if he uses the oven, he can speed up the process. He can use that time to make the filling, perhaps different variations and amounts of the components and use the ideal one.

“So, how are you going to make the taco?” the interviewer says finally, looking vaguely distressed.

“I had one from a food truck three days ago. I want to try replicating it.”

The interviewer splutters incredulously. “But isn’t that plagiarism?”

“The rules were to make a good dish. They didn’t say it can’t be a recipe that belongs to someone else.”

“That’s common sense! In general, you’re not allowed to copy and claim a creation that you didn’t make!”

“I didn’t claim to make it. I claimed to attempt replicating it.” After turning up the oven in low heat and putting the dough inside, the warbot measures out twenty-five milligrams of fulscaris and mixes it into the glass of energen. “I’m certain of eighty-eight percent of the ingredients, but I’m not sure of the method. As far as I’m aware, copyright does not protect the listings of materials. If that were the case, then every lab in the world owes Cain Labs for using the same parts to make their reploids.”

Which to Zero, is honestly a missed opportunity for X because if the Father of All Reploids was a billionaire, Zero’s motivation for coming here wouldn’t be an issue.

“You literally just said you’re going to replicate someone else’s dish,” the interviewer mentions weakly. “We have it on camera...”

Considering how much the other bot is making a fuss out of the subject, it seems going with this route isn’t wise.

“In light of what you said, I’ll make modifications,” Zero concedes reluctantly. He bends the cube mold tray upside down. Tiny, translucent cubes wobble onto the cutting board. Tilting his head curiously, the warbot brings one up close, studying the concoction he just made. “You should step away. I may have made gelpyrine and that’s an explosive.”

“What.”

Zero shrugs. “I’m not certain until I activate it. I only started cooking a week ago – “

“ _What!?”_

“ - still, I suggest informing your head of security to double-check the comm shields if they have the emergency bypass feature. If they don’t, first response will be delayed reaching you if you get caught in a minor blast.” Zero surveys the slack-jawed film crew before him. “The yellow one holding the camera at least. You have a build sturdy enough to survive the trip to the nearest shop. The rest of you won’t make it.”

“Please tell me you’re joking,” the interviewer breaks down. “This sounds like a severe safety issue and we really don’t want to halt the auditions –!”

Zero pops the tiny gel cube in a pot and shuts it tight with the lid before anyone can react. He turns up the stove heat, waits for half a minute, and takes it out uneventfully, popping it into his mouth. He swallows.

“Gelignis,” he nods thoughtfully. “This won’t explode without high heat.”

“He’s definitely screwing with us, I know he is. Just look at him!” the cameraman hisses rapidly, gesturing at Zero’s unchanging, stoic visage. “Come on, let’s just move on to the next bot.”

The gaffer smacks him again though this time half-heartedly.

*

“The most important thing is that the judges taste and see my food.”

Holling throws one blue leg over the other, smirking confidently. “The competitors I can really care less about. It’s my time to shine. I wouldn’t have come all the way from Lithium Hills if I didn’t think I had a chance.”

The interviewer hides a smile.

Good, good. It wouldn’t be good TV if there’s at least a couple feisty contestants. Even if they make average dishes, as long as what they’re serving to the chefs aren’t terrible enough to be ousted, they can stay in the show as an average cook and keep it entertaining.

“What do you think of the judges?”

“Mama Moo is shorter than I expected and Crafty Polly is _way_ bigger than I expected,” says Holling. “Crafty Polly shouts a lot less too.”

“She only gets angry over bad food.”

“That won’t be me. I can actually cook worth a slag.”

Polite chuckles all around. “And what about Veed?”

“Veed…he’s the one judge I want to impress,” the blue reploid admits. “I’ve been a fan of him for a long time. He doesn’t take scrap from anybody.”

“A lot of contestants say that he’s the scariest one.”

“They’re only scared of him because they’re afraid the truth. He doesn’t encrypt. He tells it how it is, and if your food’s slag, he’ll say it to your face. You’ll know exactly if your cooking’s good or not.”

*

Messy food service cart in tow, the sixteenth candidate leaves the judging room, head bowed low that their helmet’s shadow hide their eyes. A couple reploids come to them offering sympathy before the camera crew whisk the failed auditionee to the side for another interview. 

Zero has just finished stacking the cutlery and utensils in his respective cart when someone announces, “Number seventeen, you’re up!”

That’s him.

Eyes follow the red Hunter as he comes to the double doors. They open automatically and shut tightly behind him with a booming thud.

The atmosphere is completely different.

The cooking stations were fast-paced and compact, brimming with nervous energy and noise, and now they’re muffled as if strangled. The judging room in comparison is obnoxiously spacious with more branded wooden crates than androids, poised deliberately like modern art close to the walls, lit up with soft blue theater light. The three reploids Zero saw earlier on stage are situated on top black bar stools on a raised platform.

There’s a cooking station in the center of the room, highlighted like an interrogation table.

Zero tenses as he approaches. The mood, the assessing gazes, the way the space is designed to present the guest like a defendant, shifting power dynamics. It reminds Zero of the Commander’s office when Sigma used to own it except with way less windows.

“Good moo-ning!” the black and white judge exclaims throwing a friendly hand in the air.

…And less puns.

“I’d ask for your name, but even newly-activateds would know how you are,” says Crafty Polly warmly. “Welcome, Zero. You are the first Maverick Hunter to appear on Knife Edge.”

“Second,” says Zero. “Axl appeared in one of your episodes.”

Crafty Polly looks taken aback to that. “Axl? As in, Maverick Hunter Axl?”

It seems Axl’s reputation is growing too.

“He was a waiter in a restaurant with…” Zero reviews for a second, “the cow chandeliers.”

“That sounds like The Big Cheese,” Crafty Polly exclaims. She turns to the black and white reploid. “Mama Moo, you never told me Axl was a waiter at your restaurant!”

“I have no mammary of this,” Mama Moo says with wide eyes.

“Mammary…? Oh! _Memory!”_ Crafty Polly launches into a hearty laugh. “That’s a good one! How are you so clever, Mama?”

“Oh dear lord,” the suited reploid mutters.

“What’s wrong, Veed?” The shortest judge smiles impishly. “Are you not…a-moosed?”

 _“Anyhow,”_ Veed cuts in a little loudly, rerailing back to the subject. “It’s good to meet you in-person, Zero. What do you have for us?”

“Tacos.”

“Tacos? I always love me a good taco,” quips Mama Moo. “You have five minutes to present that dish – starting now!”

Zero moves immediately. He turns up the stove to medium heat, the flat top grill griddle to high heat, takes out his ingredient containers neatly in a row on the counter.

“So why tacos?” Crafty Polly asks.

Zero sets three plates to the side, ready. “It’s a dish I haven’t made yet.”

“You’re serving us a dish that you’re making for the first time?” Veed inquires with a frown. “I don’t know whether to call that bold or arrogant.”

“You certainly appear cow - fident,” Mama Moo muses. She grins toothily at the stern look Veed shoots at her.

Zero lays out nine balls of dough onto the grill, flattening them all quickly with an iron cast round press then flipping swiftly with a spatula. “My current directive is to cook and receive your feedback. Hesitation is a waste of time.”

Begrudgingly, Veed nods approvingly at that. “Good answer.”

“What can you bring to this competition that no one else can?” asks Crafty Polly.

Zero sets three tortillas on each plate, using a knife to spread a colored paste on each one. “Survivability,” he answers after some serious thought.

“Survivability?”

“Even if I get terminated, I eventually come back.”

“I’m not sure if that’s a metaphor or if you’re being literal.”

“I died near the end of the Fifth Maverick War, but I came back in the next one,” says the warbot with a completely straight face.

After a moment of bewildered silence, Mama Moo breaks it with a guffaw, clutching her round belly. Her short legs swing back and forth in the air. “Wow Zero, I didn’t expect you to be so funny! I like you!”

If only X was as easy.

After putting the last of the toppings on the tacos, Zero nudges the plates forward. “Done.”

Mama Moo pushes herself off the stool and waddles up close. “Three different tacos? Very ambitious!”

She gingerly picks one up, scrutinizing the shell. “Gold-flakes incorporated into the shell. Not the best presentation, but the tacos themselves do look appealing.” She holds the taco by pinching the top of the shell, holding it up and down as if weighing it, then takes a bite. “Why make three, Zero?”

“I require your feedback to know which one is the most promising.”

She eats the second taco. “Instead of just making your signature dish?”

“I don’t have one.”

“I see.” The cow-printed reploid swallows down her sample of the third taco with a smile. “Thank you.” She returns to her seat.

Veed comes next. “Mama says it’s ambitious. I can argue that this means you’re inconsistent.”

Zero glances down at the first plate. “Mama Moo didn’t eat the whole taco. You can take a bite out of hers to test the consistency.”

The suited judge grunts. “Is that how you would answer a customer in your restaurant if they ask you why their portion looks smaller than their friend’s? Take a bite to see if they’re the same?”

“That’ll never happen.” Because Zero has no plans to ever have a restaurant let alone have a customer, and therefore this theoretical problem isn’t relevant. He only wants to cook for one bot.

“You’re using the opportunity to audition for Knife Edge to experiment. Are you sure that’s wise?”

“My aim is to make something delicious, Knife Edge or not.”

“Let’s see if you succeeded then.” Veed grabs a knife and fork to separate the taco contents, isolating each filling ingredient with the utensils carefully. He brings a gelignis cube to his eye level as if it’ll whisper him secrets before popping it in his mouth. He proceeds to taste every ingredient in a similar, clinical manner before taking a normal bite out of the tacos. “Can you tell me what makes a taco a taco, and not a dish that simply _looks_ like a taco?”

The question confuses Zero enough to think it over. All he did was follow a general reploid taco recipe online and prepare the ingredients he consumed before to the best of his capacity. He’s not interested in the concept.

“I don’t know,” he answers finally.

“You don’t know? Hm.”

With folded arms, the second judge moves back to his seat, maintaining eye contact with Zero until he fully turns away.

Crafty Polly rises. Before trying the dish, she asks, “If you were to be accepted into Knife Edge, what traits do you have that you would consider to be your weaknesses?”

“My electrochemical sensors can’t identify organic compounds,” says Zero.

“That’s not a weakness. That’s an ability your construction lacks, and no bot from your general conveyor belt would have it.” Crafty Polly breaks a taco in half and places one half carefully on her tongue as if tucking it to bed. Her jaw works as if she’s pushing the taco in her mouth side to side. Then she chews and swallows. “You don’t need the ability to analyze organic compounds to know what you put in your mouth is a soybean.”

Good point.

“Then it’s my lack of experience,” the Hunter amends. “I do not have any training in the culinary arts.”

“If you did, you wouldn’t be here,” Crafty Polly says simply. She repeats her particular eating process for the next two tacos before returning to her seat.

“You told Veed you didn’t know what makes a taco a taco,” Crafty Polly starts. “But that third one…”

Zero waits.

“The third one is exemplary of a good, reploid taco.” 

“At its core, a taco consists of the tortilla shell and its filling,” Veed elaborates. “A tortilla shell full of just energen or sour cream can be arguably called a taco, just not a good taco. A modest, decent human taco has its choice of meat, vegetables, and spice, usually a sauce.”

“Basically, having the flavors of something savory, refreshing, and spicy all at once,” supplies Mama Moo, holding her cheek as if tasting the memory. “The first two are good, but the third is the most balanced. The coolant cream and heated gelignis activated my temperature and pain signals, but not overwhelmingly so. It hits a good area. In short, even if you couldn't articulate what made a taco a taco, it seems you have a knack to make a decent one. It’s a yes from me.”

“The potassium chloride-infused, solid energen crumbles were well made. I’d prefer if you had more texture, perhaps using soy,” critiques Crafty Polly. “Overall, it’s a yes from me.”

“Your tacos are good, but they’re not the best that I’ve had. I wouldn’t say they’re Knife Edge level,” says Veed. “However, we’ve never had a contestant like you before. I don’t know what to expect from you. A part of me is curious to see what you can bring to the table.”

Zero already stopped actively listening midway of Veed's report. It seems Zero's tacos are acceptable, but they're not particularly outstanding. This is good to know. He'll tweak the recipe based on the criticism.

Then it'll be good enough to feed to X.

“What’s the final verdict?” the catfish reploid nudges.

Veed sighs through his nose. “It’s a yes from me. Don’t disappoint us.”

* * *

“A cheer for the future! Say that you’re going to be the next Knife Edge Survivor!” the interviewer coaches, forcing enthusiasm in his voice, trying to mask his nervousness as much as possible. 

Being in a small, narrow room with a scary bot like Zero is not his idea of a good time.

Also, he has a saber on his back. He’s _carrying_ a _saber_ on his back. How did he pass security with that? Did security even care? _Did no one care?_

“I’ll be the next Knife Edge Survivor,” Zero says coolly.

Good enough.

“And that's a wrap!"


	3. Chapter 3

“Half of the First Response Unit B and the Hazard Unit,” suggest Signas.

He shuffles through the member profiles list in the datapad and hands it to Alia for her to look. “First Response Unit A is also full of veterans. I’d say two members and the rookie lineup entering the Twelfth to hold the station down until the central area stabilizes. You know your operators. I’ll leave the pairing to you.”

“That many for the exchange training? Are you sure about that?” Alia asks dubiously.

“Councilor Simon and Matthias are already implementing the new bill. Maverickism will go down even lower in the southern sectors.”

“Abel City is wider and generally needs more coverage. We’re going to need the numbers. Why don’t we send Axl?”

“We’ll be overstaffed so it’ll be fine if we give more of ours than they do. Giga City is going to need the numbers for a while where in a month’s time, we won’t. I want a set of optics on every part of the reconstruction - _and_ on the new mayor. Also…” Signas huffs out a breath between amusement and resigned. “Axl is going to have his hands full soon.”

Alia frowns. “I didn’t assign Axl to any mission though. Not yet at least.”

“No, you didn’t,” Signas agrees wryly.

Signas twitches and Alia stops, noticing. Someone is calling his direct line. He sees the familiar ID and raises a hand up apologetically to Alia, who nods understandingly.

He taps the side of his helmet. “Zero.”

_“Commander, I’ve made it in the competition.”_

“Congratulations,” says Signas, who’s surprised and yet, not surprised at all. “I assume Knife Edge is going to send you details regarding the filming schedule?”

“Filming schedule?” Alia mouths quizzically from the side.

_“They already did. I can forward you what they’ve sent me.”_

“Send it to Alia. I’m in a meeting with her and we’re currently coordinating Hunter deployment and scheduling for long-term, offsite missions.”

_“Understood. Zero out.”_

As soon as Signas put his hand down, Alia raises her datapad up, looking into her messages.

She stares. “Knife Edge…this is a cooking show. Zero is going on a cooking show.”

“Yes.” Heavily exventing through his nostrils, Signas says drily, “And that’s why we can’t send Axl. Zero delegated him.”

“If this wasn’t from Zero, I would think it’s a joke,” Alia says incredulously. “Actually, it would be more believable if Axl hacked into Zero’s account and sent the message from there.” Her eyes bore into the screen as if the words will change if she stares hard enough. “I mean, it’s _Zero._ I didn’t even know Zero can cook! _”_

“Me neither.”

But apparently, a world in peacetime can allow highly efficient, intelligent and deadly machines to take up new, nonviolent hobbies. Who knew.

“Why?”

“X,” Signas answers simply.

Alia’s shoulders drop. “I can guess he’d be involved. What I fail to see is the direct connection.”

Signas waves it off. “I’ll tell you when we refuel later. Back to the point, how long is he requesting leave?”

“According to this, the filming lasts roughly three months. I have to say, before this I wouldn’t have expected Zero of all people to request for a sabbatical.”

“Three consecutive months straight?”

“It seems so. It states here that Knife Edge will be providing fuel, lodging and transportation for the duration of the show and to pack any personal maintenance equipment. ‘Contestants will meet in the main studio for filming at the tenth…’ It doesn’t mention the hotel location.” Alia searches up the provided address. “The studio is still in Abel. At least Zero won’t be out of the city-state if we get another war,” she quips sardonically.

“If anything, Zero’s presence may bring more danger. Remember two months ago?”

Alia grimaces. Two months ago, in a desperate move, the White Sarkits gang carpet-bombed the 188 because they found out the Zeroth Unit Leader was closing down on their cartel down at the Petra border. They tried to take down that entire section of the highway based on approximating Zero’s location.

It didn’t work.

They still had one broken highway and a lot of resentful people though.

“That was an extreme case,” the operator sighs.

“Either way, it seems I have a couple phone calls to make.” Signas sighs, already having a processor-ache envisioning what kind of potential chaos Zero can unleash. “Alia, there’s a reploid outside of the exchange program I want you to contact to accompany Zero. I’ll send you the comm sequence right now.”

Before Alia can inquire why Signas can’t just contact the aforementioned reploid himself, she sees the name and spits out a laugh.

* * *

Zero needs to pack enough for three months.

He surveys his quarters: a recharge tube, desk and computer with two wheelchairs, a storage shelf with more space than miscellanea, and other typical, complimentary amenities provided by the Maverick Hunters.

The warbot looks at the black duffel bag by his feet, emptied of ingredients and containers, back to his spartan room, then back to his bag again. He beelines to the storage shelf and reaches for the maintenance kit, eyeing it for two seconds before tossing it at the bag in perfect accuracy.

There. He’s done.

If he needs anything else, Zero can buy it at a store near the studio. It is in one of the wealthier neighborhoods after all so there’s no shortage of high scale, self-repair stores there.

Threat assessment lazily buzzes of an entity worth a fully-charged buster shot to the processor arriving soon – lazy because that specific part of Zero’s systems is now used to being ignored without major consequence. 

Zero waits for said entity to knock lightly against his door before remotely signaling it to open.

“I had to find out from Alia that you’re going on a sabbatical,” X announces as soon as he steps in. His tone is reprehensive, but his lips are quirked at the corner in faint amusement. “She told me you were going to join a cooking show! When did that happen?”

“This morning,” says Zero, to which X’s jaws fall in response. “I just finished packing.”

X spots the lazy duffel bag and raises an inquisitive brow. “That’s supposed to be for three months?”

Zero shrugs. “I don’t need much. Knife Edge is going to provide everything else I need.” Which is entirely the whole point of joining it in the first place.

The blue robot’s gaze turns contemplative as it lingers on the bag longer. “I didn’t know you had an interest in cooking.”

“…You got me into it. I’m going further with it,” Zero confesses quietly.

“I’m genuinely glad to hear that. I actually succeeded for once.”

“Succeeded?” Zero catches.

Finally meeting Zero’s gaze, X rubs the back of his helmet sheepishly. “When I was a rookie, I dragged you to so many random things: concerts, sporting events, arcades, movies…you always went, but you never seemed that interested in what was happening. Sometimes I was worried that you found it all asinine, but you never said no.”

“I was more interested in your perspective of them,” admits Zero, thinking back. “Your processor fundamentally operates on completely different terms than mine.”

X came to Zero as a walking conundrum, a fellow combat-based robot who sought for the end of his design’s directive. Someone who walked the philosophical area between what it means to be a robot and a human, or above it by his limitless potential. It took years and war and a couple despicable memories for Zero to be less baffled and more appreciative of the Lightbot.

“I had a feeling it was that. To be fair, I knowingly took advantage of that since I wanted to be your friend so much,” X states wistfully, striding to Zero’s desk, whirling one of the two chairs around towards him. He sits down in the casual manner of someone who’s done so liberally plenty of times. “But this time you’re venturing on something completely your own. I may have an active interest in food now, but I’ve never cooked. Between the two of us, you’re the master. Maybe you can teach me a thing or two. Become my mentor again,” X adds cheekily.

“Not exactly,” huffs Zero as he takes the other seat, reviewing the taco critique he received from earlier. “It’s not up to my personal standard yet. There’s a lot about food I don’t know yet.”

“What kind of standard can that be?” X laughs exasperatedly. “You got into a _show_ , Zero.”

“I’ve only started cooking last week. The show’s standards must be low.”

“Hard on yourself much? Maybe you’re just that good,” X rebukes though Zero can sense that the other robot is taken aback of the short timetable (to which a small burst of pride shoots through him). “Even if that weren’t the case, it wouldn’t be as fun or challenging for you if you’re automatically good at it. And I bet you wouldn’t be doing it if you weren’t enjoying it to some degree.”

Zero makes a noncommittal sound. If he was cooking because the action fulfills him the same way as combat does, that’s one thing. But he has a specific goal and it’s sitting next to him.

He doesn’t want to be just “good.” That’s too low bar. Zero has his sights set to create top-tier cuisine and he wants to get there, fast.

Then X is chuckling suddenly. Zero tilts his head inquisitively at that.

“I suddenly felt really happy for you,” X explains with a broad grin, viridian eyes shimmering with sincerity. “Not because you got on Knife Edge – that’s fantastic, don’t get me wrong, but you’ve found cooking, Zero. You have potential and you’re exploring it. I can’t wait to see how far you’ll go with it. I’ll cheer you on from home!”

Zero’s processor statics. He’s pinned down by that warm, supportive gaze. It’s setting his power distributors smoldering warm, an addictive sensation flooding his core.

Rust, this is how X gets just from Zero passing the auditions? What would he be like if Zero went all the way?

 _I need to win it all,_ Zero thinks distantly.

He _needs_ to know what kind of face X makes if he does.

Right then, threat assessment rings that there’s another powerful entity approaching his location swiftly, accompanied with loud, echoing steps. X and Zero’s heads turn to the door just in time for a series of echoing clanging burst from the other side.

“HEY ZERO, LET ME IN! LET ME IIINNNNN!”

Zero opens the door and Axl jumps in with the largest scrap-eating grin Zero has ever seen. “I heard you got into Knife Edge – that’s bolts!” he says in a breathless rush that makes no sense considering he’s a robot.

The red warbot nods mutely.

At Zero’s lackluster reaction, the young Hunter rolls his eyes. “Geez, how is that you’re the one who’s going to be on Knife Edge and I’m more amped up than you? Also, ‘sup X!”

“Hey Axl,” X greets back.

“Anyways, tell me about it. How were the tryouts like? What did you make? Did you get yelled at? Wait, I change my mind, _don’t_ tell me anything. I want to watch it all on TV and then ask you for the dets.”

“I wouldn’t have told you anyway. I’m under a nondisclosure agreement to not tell anyone about the auditions. Technically, no one was supposed to know that I even went on until the first episode airs,” says Zero, arms crossing.

“Yeah, but Alia just told me that I’m taking on your work, which wouldn’t have happened if you didn’t pass the auditions. I was able figure it out from there.” Axl freezes. “Hold up, was X not supposed to know and I just spoiled it?”

“It’s X,” deadpans Zero.

“Fair enough. But still.” Axl turns to the quietly stunned Elite Hunter. “Low-key wished that you didn’t know until we watch the first episode. The look on your face when Zero comes on-screen – aw frag, what a missed opportunity. Truly, a tragedy.”

“Axl, you knew that Zero auditioned?” asks X.

“Pfft, I was the one who gave him the idea!” Axl grins, folding his arms behind his head. “Best thing I ever did. I want this to be in my list of achievements.” He gestures at Zero with both arms as if to present the older Hunter like a work of art. “My finest legacy: getting Zero to be on Knife Edge.”

Zero levels an even look. “You didn’t get me into Knife Edge.”

“But you wouldn’t have known it existed if it weren’t for me,” Axl retorts. He wipes away a nonexistent tear from his eye. “I’m so proud of you, Zero. And myself.” He straightens up, pounding a fist on an open palm as a thought strikes him. “Fritz, if Palette doesn’t know yet, I can make a bet with her. She has no faith in you, she’s totally going to bet against you. If I rub acid on her enough, I can probably push her to throw in some serious zenny.”

“Axl,” says X.

“What? Us Hunters don’t get paid enough,” Axl insists.

“So you’ll coax a fellow Hunter to engage the questionable activity of gambling with you, one in which is rigged in your favor?” X returns patiently.

“X, why you gotta say it like that.”

X keeps staring at the black sharpshooter with the knowing calm of a saint. He doesn’t blink once. For a very expressive robot like X, it’s effective.

Finally, Axl hangs his head in defeat, kicking at nonexistent dirt off the floor. “Ughhhh fine.”

Impressed, Zero shoots a smirk toward the Blue Bomber. “If it takes that fast for Axl to fold, you should be the one telling him to finish his paperwork on time.”

“I like to believe that Axl has matured enough as a Hunter to carry out his own responsibilities,” the Father of All Reploids says serenely,” without having someone having to nag him to do it.”

Shaking his head, Axl whines. “This level of guilt-tripping should be illegal. Amazing, I can’t believe I used to look up to you, X.”

Zero scoffs. “You still do.”

“Hell yeah I do,” Axl mourns.

“Anyways,” the Mega Man cuts in,” Zero, is there anything more you have to prepare before going on Knife Edge? If it’s something I can do, I’m glad to help.”

Zero checks the time. “I have some time before I need to recharge. I can spend that time to make another dish.”

Clapping his hands together in delight, X offers, “If you need to practice, I can be your test subject. I’ll eat anything you make.”

“No,” Zero says without a beat. X deserves no less than the very best, let alone be in a lowly position as a test subject. His cooking isn’t ready to be served to X yet.

The blue android blinks, off-footed. “Oh…okay.”

Zero turns to Axl and gestures the door with his head. “You’re a different story. You should be done for the day so come with me.” Because Zero still needs a test subject and Axl remains to be acceptable.

Not waiting for an answer, the warbot is already striding out of the door – Axl is his second, by protocol he’s obligated to come anyway - and completely misses the split second, crestfallen look that flits across X’s face.

“Zero’s bootleg food, round two. Sweet,” Axl laughs to himself before noticing the one other robot in the room isn’t moving from the chair. “Uh, you alright there, man?”

“I’m fine, I should get going too,” X responds, a bit confused himself.

He has the bizarre feeling of being demoted.

* * *

Knife Edge’s shooting location is even further away from the Hunter Base than the previous studio, though the exterior is similar in appearance. Another cluster of nondescript warehouses with simple, sunny architecture. Zero catches more security cameras snuck in tastefully with the techno-organic palm trees and trimmed shrubbery interspersed here and there, however.

There are portable sign stands signaling the directions for Knife Edge’s location everywhere. Zero follows them from the parking lot and even though he’s arrived five minutes before the designated time, there’s already a couple cast wrangling reploids standing outside of the building, calling out to him as if he’s late.

“Zero, welcome back! Is that all you brought?” one says, pointing at Zero’s duffel bag. They’re already taking it off his hands, tying a labeled tag around a handle, slumping it with compact luggages. They hand Zero a number. “We’ll hold onto this for now. Go around the corner and enter backstage, we need to get you ready.”

It’s a swarm of activity the moment when he gets there. There are reploids and humans rushing back and forth, a couple staff members honing onto Zero like Hotarions as soon as he steps in, ushering him to the far side. There’s already five other reploids lined up, some standing in front of vanity dressing mirrors as producers and stylists fuss over every single one of them.

“Masaal, take this. Turvy suits your plating way more than whatever brand you’ve been using. See that shine? Beautiful. I recommend that you use this before filming from now on.” 

“That…is a lot of wing. Float Butterfly, I’m going to need you to step to the side so we can polish all of _that_ up.”

“Did anyone see where Lodz went?”

Someone finally took notice of the stock frozen combatdroid standing at the edges. It’s a human slightly taller than Zero, hip cocked to one side, dressed completely in black that their outfit blends with the dark lighting. Their eyes rove up and down Zero’s form.

“Ugh, that is so much hair.” They turn to the side, abruptly yelling,” I NEED AN EXTRA PAIR OF HANDS AND A GALLON OF FABRIC SOFTENER, STAT! Zero, come with me downstairs. We have fifteen minutes to get your hair under control.”

The combatdroid glares. “What do you mean by that.”

“Your hair looks like an emotionally abused lovechild of a pissy hedgehog and a horse’s tail,” they say snippily. The voice alone has Zero’s wires crossing. “That thing can impale a man and get a life sentence. How is it arching in spikes like that? Don’t worry, everything else about you is fine, but let’s get you to look a little less Hunter and a bit more…bakery daddy. Hard armor, bouncy hair, war hero with a soft side. Everyone will eat it up.”

“I did not understand anything you just said,” Zero replies in equal amounts of cold and blunt,” But no one is touching my hair.”

“Zero, you have all this gorgeous hair and it would be an utter waste to not have it shine. It’s just a little fabric softener. Not to mention, when the camera goes on you, all it’s going to see is you, your hair, and nothing else,” they say sternly. “It’s hogging so much space.”

That’s the issue? If that’s the case…

“Give me a second,” says Zero, closing his eyes in concentration. Slowly, his hair gives in more to gravity, contracting and slimming more tightly together until it’s compact.

“…What was that?”

“Fabric softener wouldn’t do anything to my hair. It isn’t made of plastic like most reploids’ hairs are,” Zero explains. “It wholly consists of wire sensors. Just now, I manually turned off or lowered down the less essential processes.” Which the warbot finds uncomfortable because he’s intaking less environmental information, but it’s tolerable.

The human’s jaws drop. “Shut up. Your hair’s _alive?”_

Zero doesn’t know what to say to that.

“TANGY TRUFFLE AND YAN ARE HERE, I NEED A TEAM ON THEM!” someone yells, thankfully commanding everyone’s attention, including the stylist. “EVERYONE ELSE, START WRAPPING UP THE PREP AND GET THE SURVIVORS TO THE DOORS!”

*

“It was so dark backstage. Then they opened the double doors and I was, like, going to break down. Literally,” says Kary, fanning himself. “I used up all my tears the past few days – like, with everything going on, I’ve been so emotional, y’know? Then I was the first to walk in and I saw the kitchen and it was the most beautiful thing I ever saw, I swear, my body was going to force more tears. I was probably cry more in hydraulics than actual water at that point. I kept on thinking ‘this is our new home now.’”

“Was there anything specific on set that you were drawn to?”

“Wow, tough question much?” Kary laughs unrestrainedly, leaning back in his seat with a hand on his chest, his core ready to overload from the memory. “Like I don’t know, everything’s stunning. The equipment room has top notch mixers, pressure smelters, top notch everything. There’s this super cute, sort of library slash chill lounge combo on the far side with all the recipes and techniques you can ever want. Gorgeous restaurant in the back - my optics were on the VIP section in a hot second. I’ve seen boujee, I _know_ boujee, but when I saw it? I was like ‘hmm hmm, now _that’s_ boujee.’ That’s the kind of restaurant I’m going to open.”

“Going to open?”

“Yesss,” Kary flicks his head back, pale green hair tossed over his shoulders. “That’s what I’m here for. If I win the Knife, I can open my own restaurant. I can get that kitchen, get that pantry – ugh smelt me, I lied, everything’s great but if I had to choose one thing? Only one, one thing? That pantry? Is to expire for. I’ve never seen so many metals and crystals in one spot before. That’s an all-you-can-eat, jewelry store. Gimme gimme gimme.”

*

The judges are saying something but Zero gives less than two bytes. It sounds like another speech, deliberately designed to inspire and motivate and it’s awfully similar to what Sigma used to do before the Rebellion. Zero has never cared for monologues and he never will.

“…the kitchen of your dreams, and the fifty million zennies…” Veed’s voice drones on over the warbot’s head.

From the very back, the Hunter scrutinizes the other fourteen contestants next to him, all focusing on the judges in rapt attention. Zero finds himself more intrigued by his new surroundings. The ovens are already on, raring to be used. If he chooses to use one, it will save him time, but he can’t help but consider how risky it is when it’s left on like this. In fact, practically everything here can lay harm. 

“…just have to beat everyone else. Becomes this country’s next Knife Edge Survivor…”

Every environment has its share of dangers and this one is no different. Zero can easily detect at least twenty different hazards within his immediate vicinity, from the sheer amount of combustible gas to the countless sharp objects contained in this singular area. Half of the reploids in this room can put up a fight as well.

The kitchen may not be a conventional battlefield, but it can be one. Theoretically, most items can be a weapon if one’s creative enough, but here, literally every tool can be a decent weapon.

“- let’s see who has what it takes or who can’t quite cut it!” Mama Moo shots, raising her arms in the air. “We want to know if you can handle the basics, which brings us to your very first challenge.”

Current subject relevant. Zero refocuses.

“Each of you have to prepare, cook, and present an amazing dish with the most basic fuel known to all reploids: energen,” proclaims Crafty Polly. “Energen by itself doesn’t have a taste and that’s where you come in. We want to see if you can transform the humble energen to be the star of the plate.”

Like a switch, the optics of every reploid in the room have changed as if they’ve all been summoned to war. Zero’s combat readiness rises despite him.

Veed clack his needle fingers together. “Chop chop! This isn’t your training lab anymore. This is a _warzone._ You have an hour to make it, starting: now! _”_

_…Oh._

*

“It was a stampede!” Antat shouts incredulously. “The animaloids were flying and charging, and Zuru Zuru Kame went inside his shell and _spun_ across the floor. You wouldn’t think his design’s based on a turtle when he was that fritzing fast! They were out of their processors!”

“The time limit does that to people,” the interviewer says.

“They can at least be civilized about it!” the brown reploid snaps hotly. “But do you know who the worst was? Zero!”

“Zero?”

“Yeah! He could have run normally like the rest of us, but nooo – that maniac turned on his accelerators! ACCELERATORS! I’m a park maintenance worker and the sets that Zero had? They’re not the ones you see those human kids on scooters have on the sidewalks. These were on a totally different level. So instead of running normally like the rest of us humanoids, Zero had to be _extra,”_ Antat stretches out the word derisively. _“_ This glitching, high ping, fifteen framerates behind, floppy disc _conk_ ,” he punctuates deeply, octaves dropping to bass, “used his fancy Maverick Hunter speed equipment to double front-flip hop over me! _He almost burned the top of my helmet off!”_

So that’s what Antat’s rubbed acid about, whew.

Trying not to guffaw, the interviewer’s lips are pressed in a constipated line, struggling. He did see the shot of Zero dash-jumping from the back to the forefront of the crowd, stunning everyone into a pure, “what the frick frack just happened” stupor.

It was amazing. Absolutely glorious. Zero terrifies him, but he’s shaping up to be surprisingly entertaining. Who knew the Crimson Hunter had it in him?

“If that was it, alright, okay, that’s fine, _I get it._ We were all trying to be fast and I can respect that,” Antat continues in a quieter, rumbling tone that resembles an awakening volcano,” but then he tried to go ahead and nab all the E-Tanks!?

“I was going for the shavings first so I didn’t know he was basically sabotaging everyone at the same time until I saw him stacking up on E-Tanks. When I saw it, I had two conflicting directives: I didn’t know whether to applaud him or go Maverick. But do you know what the worst part was?”

Antat throws his hands down in disbelief. “If there was anyone who could pull it off, it was him. In fact, _he almost did._ This tool was stacking E-Tanks on both arms like it was the Eurasia Collision Part Two.”

_Oh scrap._

“Only Fairski had the cables to grab some from him. But Zero – bolts, I cannot believe that bot’s a Hunter. Zero looked like he was ready to fight. As in, _legitimately_ fight _._ I was getting fulscaris from the left watching the whole thing go down, thinking, ‘aw scrap, it’s only the first round and already, someone’s going to die.’”

“It really sets the tone for the entire season, doesn’t it,” the interviewer inputs, trying to sound sympathetic but failing.

“The previous seasons of Knife Edge were insane, but this had to take the cake. Mama Moo came over because, the fritz? What was going on in the pantry, right? I expected Zero to get disqualified for pulling that slag but then…”

*

“Now hold on for a moo-ment!” Mama Moo fumes, hands on her hips. However, the effect is dampened by her height and stomping feet. It’s difficult to be intimidated by a robot who’s at tall as a human child dressed in cow garb. “Sabotage this early in the show, Zero?”

“I didn’t commit any sabotage,” Zero counters coldly. “If anything, I’m the one being sabotaged. I’m acquiring my E-Tanks while...” He squints at the reploid across from him. “What’s your name?”

“It’s Fairski, and don’t you forget it!” the bright orange reploid shouts, pointing at Zero dramatically. “I’m not going to let you get away pulling that kind of stunt! How dare you try to keep all the E-Tanks to yourself!”

“If I wanted to seize all the resources to put you all in a disadvantage, I would go with the scorched-earth policy,” the warbot retorts.

Fairski splutters. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“There’s at least forty E-Tanks here. I’d take the nine that I need and destroy the rest of them,” Zero explains with the casual inflection of a mercenary’s ruthlessness.

“Why on God’s green Earth would you need nine?” Mama Moo cuts in as Fairski gawks, offended.

“Excluding the cameramen, there are eighteen reploids here. Each E-Tank contains twice the amount of energen portion I require to make the dish I need. Therefore, I need nine.”

The more test subjects Zero has, the more beneficial.

The judge is visibly flabbergasted. “Are you attempting to cook for everyone?”

“Yes.” Isn’t that obvious? Why else would he take nine?

“What are you planning to make if you can dish out eighteen portions in an hour? Doughnuts?” Fairski sneers as he marches up to Zero to glare fully at him. “That’s a load of scrap! I don’t believe you!”

Zero gives the offended robot a weirded-out look. Is Zero supposed to care about that?

The combatdroid checks his internal chronometers and huffs. “Fifty-three minutes now. If it weren’t for this delay, I could have made eighteen portions in time,” Zero exvents, shooting a dry look at both Mama Moo and Fairski as if to silently blame them. 

“Zero, this isn’t a numbers challenge. You have only one hour to cook for me! And the other two judges.” Mama Moo nods sagely. “It needs to be one dish. I’m glad that you’re ambitious, but you need to focus on quality, not quantity!”

“One dish,” Zero repeats, brows knitting.

“Indeed!”

He puts down six E-Tanks, pushes one into Fairski’s chest, who reaches up reflexively, bewildered. As Zero strides away with two, he comments, “If I do have time remaining, I'll make three.”

Mama Moo chortles pleasantly. “He just needs to make one, but he keeps on making so much. What a cow-rious fellow Zero is!”

*

Antat huffs. “Excuse my language, but I’m with Fairski there. I call _bullshit.”_

*

Zero lost time, but it’s fine. Mama Moo mentioned a “numbers challenge,” which implies that he will have an opportunity to have numerous test subjects sometime in the future.

Now back to the task at hand…

E-Tank energen generally has a subtle bitter flavor save for the initial, carbonic acid burst that comes when cracking it open from the can. It has a silky texture as a liquid, grows thinner with heat unless infused with another ingredient or charge, and is commonly used as a flavor amplifier. In its unprocessed form, it has a taste Zero doesn’t know how to categorize, but X did once mention that it’s “sort of earthy.” It’s not recommended to consume energen in crystal or ore form, but that didn’t stop X when he was in an energen mine and the need to survive outweighs the uncomfortable absorption process.

“As long as the mechs’ tanks are intact, you could harvest their fuel,” Zero once transmitted to the other Hunter after X gave him a call.

“I didn’t have time to rest,” X sighed exhaustedly then. “There were too many tracking Battons and the Spikies would not stop coming. The Mole Borers were always at my heels. If I wasn’t running, I was riding on carts. I was constantly moving.”

“Could have killed the Mole Borer.”

“I appreciate that you think I’m that strong, but I wasn’t going to risk the spikes,” X said self-deprecatingly. “It wasn’t until I was already down at the sixth level that I realized I was going to face Armored Armadillo with a quarter of a tank left. It was either fight him on fumes or…” Zero could sense X shrugging from the other end. “Grab a raw crystal off the wall.”

That was back during the First War. Now, X is much stronger, his shots more precise. Looting necessities off his defeated enemies comes more easily to him.

Still, if they were somewhere with no supplies, no mechs around to hunt, fortunate enough to find an ore deposit…

Zero hefts up the energen geode onto the countertop. He rotates it slowly with one hand and a plasma knife in the other, carefully carving out the uncertain edge where the rock ends and the crystal begins. The didionite inside the muffle furnace should be ready by the time the berlinite gets soft inside the pressure smelter.

The minutes tick by. The judges are making their rounds around the kitchen, going up to each contestant’s station one by one asking questions.

“Do you think combining calcium and energen is wise?”

“That’s ambitious. Do you think it’ll be able to set in time?”

“This is sour.”

There’s so much activity, so much to study. There are so many different techniques that the other contestants are utilizing, so many ingredient combinations and so much commentary thrown left and right.

Zero tries to encode everything to memory while keeping an eye on his smelter.

*

“You weren’t nervous at all? Not one bit?”

“More like…nothing felt real,” Float Butterfly titters airily. “Ever since the open call, I felt like I was in a high-resolution simulation…there was so much going on all the time…I could barely process it…maybe I’m not defragging well these days. Can you believe…that today is only the first day?”

“It’s a lot to take in, isn’t it?” the interviewer acknowledges.

“I suppose it is…” the insectaloid concedes. “I’ve always seen the chefs on TV that seeing them in real life felt like seeing the TV…but it’s real and when you say things, they reply back to you…ah it’s nice to be here…so many people…so many wonderful chefs…staking their dreams and careers to be a source of entertainment to the fickle judgement of the unforgiving public…”

“Yeahhhh, riiiight.”

Float Butterfly rubs her slender hands over each other idly, lazily gazing around her. What a nice pantry. The pantry in the Knife Edge kitchen was nice, but this is nicer. Very high ceilings. There’s plenty of room for her wings. Her wings can be so inconvenient since they’re so large, but she does need them to fly to the top of the electric towers. Sometimes she wishes she was designed smaller. She wants to spread her wings, but it wouldn’t do if she accidentally knock the hanging mic above her again.

“ – Butterfly? Hello?”

“Yes?” she asks.

“I was asking what you think of the other amateur chefs.”

“Oh, they’re nice I suppose…” she says. “I did not talk to them much…I only know Purple Pig from the tryouts…we were at the same open call center and he’s very good…he seasons very well and he’s very good knowing the right amount of charge to infuse in his metals…good heat...”

“Do you see Purple Pig as your _only_ threat?”

Her antennas vibrate as she thinks on the question. There are fifteen contestants and she recalls only half of them from the top of her processor, and half of that group she only remembers because they simply did things that stuck out so much, they managed to get encoded into her long-term memory storage.

Like Zero, that silly red reploid who flew over the crowd without wings. She feels she’s seen him somewhere before the show though. Was he a janitor back in the power plant?

“Float Butterfly?”

Oh, that’s right. She’s still in the middle of a confessional.

“…No, Purple Pig is not the only serious competition,” she says finally. “There are others…Slicer’s Gallia sandwich melt had the most wonderful fragrance…Zuru Zuru Kame’s fusion bowl made a sublime picture…I wish I could have a bite and taste every individual component…”

“So Purple Pig, Slicer, and Zuru Zuru Kame,” the interviewer nods. “And who do you think will leave the competition early?”

The insectaloid hums. “I say…”

*

“Zero, please come up and present your dish.”

As Zero comes forward to the judging table, everyone stares and not only because he’s literally put under the spotlight.

“Can you please explain what this is?” Crafty Polly starts.

“Stew.”

“We can see that,” Veed says with a touch of derision. “Is this a joke? What kind of presentation is this?” he says, gesturing flippantly at the dish.

“It’s a rock,” Zero answers.

“It’s a very nice-smelling rock,” Mama Moo says generously.

“You can’t serve entire rocks in a restaurant!” the suited judge sneers.

“It’s not an entire rock. It’s stew in a rock that I carved out,” says Zero.

“And what kind of stew is this?” asks Crafty Polly.

“Energen stew.”

“Zero, I know you didn’t just used energen!” Mama Moo sing-songs while Veed’s gaze is growing so cold that it can scare a cranky stove to fix itself. “Tell us about the other main cow-ponents! Your techniques and your concept! It’s the first challenge so I understand that you’re shy, but better now than later to get used to it! Because we’ll be asking you these questions every single time from now on. That way, we know if what you intended to make was successful!”

That makes sense.

“It’s a net atomic charged-energen stew with calcium bentonite balls and silicon dioxide seasoning,” Zero rephrases.

“How did you maintain the shape?” Crafty Polly prompts as she takes out a temperature resistant tasting spoon and raises a bentonite ball. It’s completely coated in the bright blue energen mixture, obscuring the clay grey coloring. The seasoning makes the top of the mixture sparkle and reflect under the lighting.

“I blast froze them before adding them in.”

“It’s very tasty,” the catfish animaloid supplies when she tries it. “The energen stock itself, that is. It’s rich, but the bentonite balls are fighting it. The flavors and the temperatures are so starkly different from each other that it feels like I’m eating two different dishes at the same time. Thank you, Zero."

Then it was Mama Moo’s turn. “Why make the bentonite balls? Why freeze them?”

“There was already bentonite in the energen ore deposit I got,” explained Zero. “I wanted to use as much of the deposit as I could. I blast froze them so the balls wouldn’t break and mix in with the energen.”

“I admire your resourcefulness. However, what I would have done,” Mama Moo suggests,” is to make a protective shell with a material that has a melting point that’s above the energen and below the bentonite. That way, every part of the dish would be consistent and it would be a nice, warm meal overall.”

Zero nods. “Understood.”

“I don’t know what the other two are talking about,” Veed says bluntly when he comes forth. “You’re not the first to use the actual ingredients to make bowls out of them, but this is a crude execution. Maybe you and Polly can carry this around without a problem, but Mama Moo and I would need new hands if we tried.”

“I would lose both of my arms,” Mama Moo admits with an out-of-place cheer.

“You could have used normal dishware. What were you thinking?”

“I was thinking that if I find energen in the wild, what I can make of it with what’s readily available.”

“Like a wild Irregular? Are you an Irregular, Zero?”

Among the other contestants lined up behind him, someone snickers.

Zero frowns. “I’m not a mechaniloid. Even if I was broken, I wouldn’t be an Irregular. I’d be categorized as a Maverick.”

“I would think you’re being a smart-aleck if I didn’t have the inkling that you’re being serious,” Veed mutters. He lightly nudges the rock bowl, which sways slightly back and forth, demonstrating the uneven bottom and the weight. The table clinks with every knock. “Look at that. I’m impressed that the table is holding up. But I’m not here to judge tables. I’m here to judge what you prepare. Let’s see.”

After Veed takes a bite, he throws the spoon more than putting it down on the side.

“This isn’t your kitchen anymore, Zero. I expect more than just home cooking, but if I’m going to have some, I'd rather that I can tell it’s stew when I eat it. Stew is warm and comforting. Your bentonite balls didn’t break, but they’re not warm. They’re cold and not in the way that they’re refreshing.”

Veed glares.

“This dish doesn’t know what it wants to be, and I’m wondering if you don’t either."

*

Holling cackles.

“And I thought, ‘Oh fritz, here it is. Zero's the first to go home.'"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because I have no chill, I watched “My Strange Addiction” to know the taste of things no one should know the taste of unless they want to die early.  
> Apparently dryer sheets taste spicy and tangy. Who knew. Don’t try them, kids.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have the kindest commissioners ever. It's been hard to get in the lighthearted mindset to write this story because of the past month and I really appreciate their patience ;A;  
> I only hope that it's not boring ahhh

“HE BETTER NOT BE SENT HOME!” Axl bellows at the TV screen.

Sitting on the couch by Axl’s side is X, who’s employing some self-restraint. Even if he agrees with the sentiment, X is the walking culmination of thirty plus years of morality simulations and five wars, and is one of the two oldest functioning robots in the twenty-second century. Though he may not act always as the proper role model to the newer Hunters, he does try.

So instead of joining Axl in yelling at the TV, X chides,” Axl, calm down. The judges’ comments were mixed. Believe in Zero.”

“He better not be sent home,” Axl says again, quieter but no less rubbed acid. “He has to survive.”

“There’s no shame if he comes home early,” Palette quips from Axl’s other side, lazily pushing a crunchy spark snack from one cheek to another with her tongue.

With a glare, Axl prods Palette’s shoulder next to him. Every poke he makes pushes Palette into bumping against Layer, who in turn softly bumps against the far end of their shared couch. “Easy for you to say. You’re the one betting against him,” he grumbles.

“Axl, are you serious,” X says exasperatedly. “We talked about this.”

“It’s different! No one knows what’s going to happen so the bet isn’t rigged,” Axl retorts. “None of my calls went through to Zero – “

“You tried to find out the results ahead?” Palette squawks indignantly.

 _“I said,_ none of my calls went through. Also, have more faith in me than that!” Axl shoots back the last part to X pointedly. “I just wanted to ask him if he was going to come back to Base or not. Ever since Zero delegated me, I get so many emails because of the Zeroth Unit. If I knew he’s returning, I don’t need to deal with them.”

“I didn’t know you were having a hard time, Axl,” Layer inputs sympathetically. “Would you like to have some assistance?”

“Don’t be nice to him,” Palette cuts in viciously while Axl mouths “don’t listen to Palette, be nice to me!” from behind. “Axl can do it. He’s done it before. He just doesn’t want to because it’s boring.”

“I would like to point out that if you successfully made contact with Zero and he says he’s coming back, then it means he didn’t advance,” Signas says flatly from the armchair a meter away.

Axl pauses. “Oh. I didn’t think of that.”

“Wait a minute,” Palette interrupts with wide eyes. “Then there’s no point in betting! As long as he doesn’t return to Base, we’d know he survived!” She pulls her antennas in frustration. “Ugh, I can’t believe I was so stupid! Axl, I’m rescinding my bet!”

“Actually, there’s no way of knowing early,” says Layer quietly. “In reality shows, if a contestant gets eliminated, usually the program will hold onto them until after the episode of their elimination is aired. It’s how they can prevent leaks and spoilers. If the contestant returns home while filming is ongoing and someone spots them, that’s a spoiler.”

At Palette’s curious look, the taller Navigator ducks her head, index fingers poking each other. Her bangs are hiding her eyes, but her cheeks are glowing red. “I regularly watch _Auto-Complete Me!_ and _Are You My Type?_ They always end in cliffhangers and sometimes I get impatient…”

“Encouraging gambling. I didn’t know you had it in you.” Alia pipes up from the armchair next to Signas’.

Layer somehow gets redder. “I – I didn’t mean – “

“I’m just joking. I knew you had it in you.”

“Alia!”

Palette settles down. “Well, that’s good to know. When it comes down to it, what matters is that I’m not being scammed,” she shoots a dark look at Axl,” and that no one gets to know anything ahead of time.”

 _“Okay, all of you please step forward,”_ Crafty Polly’s voice rings out.

“Guys, put a lid on it! They’re announcing who won’t survive,” Axl whispers harshly, eyes trained on the screen in rapt attention.

In the wide-screen TV plastered on the wall, all the contestants are lined up in front of the three judges. At the start of the episode when all the contestants started streaming in, the show kept jumping to the confessionals. With so many reploids of various shapes and sizes gathered together like this, it’s an impressive group shot.

 _“We asked you to elevate the everyday energen,”_ Veed begins, _“to be a star of its own right…”_

 _“Some dishes were stars and others were not,”_ says Mama Moo. _“Sadly, that means at least one contestant won’t survive. If we call out your name, please steppe forward! Lodz, Zero, Emile…”_

“Oh no, he’s on losers’ death row,” Axl bemoans.

“It could be the survivors’ row,” Layer tries quietly.

Alia clicks her tongue. “With what Veed said about his dish? I highly doubt it.”

 _“You three made dishes that were_ not _stars,”_ says Crafty Polly. _“Lodz, your dish…”_

“Nope, it’s losers’ death row,” Palette comments.

The judges proceed to lay down their judgments to each summoned android: Lodz’s dish was strangely clumpy, Zero’s too confusing, and Emile’s pasta didn’t have any energen flavoring, hence not following the prompt.

X watches on with fists curled on his lap, silent. He doesn’t normally watch television, let alone reality shows, and he already despises the format. The show has this infuriating tendency to give dramatic pauses every other second, zooming in the contestants’ faces and prolonging the suffering.

Is Zero going to go on or go home? He wants to _know_ already!

_“…One bot will not be moving on to the next round…”_

Layer makes a sympathetic noise. “Poor bot, she looks like she’s going to breakdown.”

Onscreen, Lodz’ eyes are indeed watering and the show cuts to a confessional.

 _“And I was standing there thinking, oh smelt me, it’s going to be me, isn’t it? Ahhhhhhhh!"_ Lodz cries. _“My dish was clumpy, the flavors were uneven, and I was starting to think that me even coming onto the show was a fluke.”_

“Wow, if this is how she is from the first round, I don’t know if she can last long,” Palette frowns. “If she moves on to the second round that is.”

 _“Zero…”_ Crafty Polly starts.

“NO!” Axl cries.

“Yes!” Palette crows.

Layer gasps. Alia doesn’t blink. Signas’ arms are crossed, watching steadily on while X’s fists impossibly tighten more.

_“…that bot is not you. While your dish was mediocre, it was not the worst. Please join the others at the side.”_

“YES!” Axl fistpumps.

“Aw slag,” Palette grumbles half-heartedly. She pulls up her datapad, presses a couple buttons, and Axl grins,” Thaaank you. Easiest five thousand zennies I ever made.”

“He’s lucky this time,” says Palette. “But he won’t win all the time. He hasn’t cooked that long. He’s still an amateur among amateurs.”

“Don’t underestimate the power of love,” Axl replies loftily.

“Love?” X echoes.

Axl’s face does something funny for a moment. “For food. Love for food.”

“Alia.” Signas calls suddenly.

Alia looks at Signas, appearing annoyed. Signas looks back evenly.

Finally, the blonde Navigator makes a “pffft” sound. She pulls out her datapad.

Layer gapes. “Alia, you too?”

Axl grasps his chest as if he was shot, betrayed. “You should have told me you two were betting! We could have had a pool!”

“We didn’t start betting until twenty minutes ago. Also, she’s the Head Senior Navigator and I’m the Commander. We don’t bet small money,” says Signas sagely.

“I didn’t expect Zero to pass,” Alia shrugs.

“Normally I wouldn’t either, but there were other contestants who were doing worse. I have a few guesses who will survive for the next three rounds.” Signas raises a hand to his mouth, contemplative. “We should start betting who won’t survive. That’ll make it more challenging.”

“Betting against you was a mistake,” Alia says, amused.

“You should have known better,” Signas agrees.

“More like, I wouldn’t put it pass you to bribe or blackmail someone from Knife Edge to set me up for failure.”

X buries his face in his hands.

“Alia, why would I resort to bribery or blackmail when I can profile? Besides, if there’s anyone who’s an expert in underhanded dealings, I’m looking at her.”

Too stunned to be insulted, the former reploid researcher mouths, “That’s _low.”_

Elbows resting on the armrests, Signas somehow makes the humble lounge chair look like it belongs to a conference meeting. “I used to be a private investigator. Figuring people out and strategizing around their behavioral patterns is what I do. If I don’t know something, I eventually will,” he says with utmost seriousness.

At that, everyone stares at Signas.

“You terrify me,” Palette says bluntly while Axl whispers in awe,” Teach me your ways.”

X shoots them at them all with the most offended face ever before shaking his head with resigned acceptance.

 _At least Zero survived the first round,_ the Blue Bomber thinks, smiling.

It’ll be a little longer before X can taste Zero’s cooking it seems. The wait will only make the moment all the more sweeter.

The Azure Hunter exvents. He hasn’t talked to Zero for a while.

 _"I'll be the next Knife Edge Survivor,"_ Zero's uninterested voice comes from the screen as if on cue.

"...Does he care? At all?" Palette wonders aloud. She looks at X in silent question as if the Blue Bomber is the resident Zero expert.

X shrugs helplessly.

* * *

Zero’s eyes spring open four hours after he closed them.

Noticing the warbot’s awake, the recharge tube beeps twice and the glass shield rises. He leans forward, blinking, not climbing out of the tube yet.

Zero checks the time. In another two or three hours, he and the other contestants have to be down at the lobby, ready to hop onto a bus for either a challenge or a class. They’re given schedules on when to refuel and recharge, but they’re not allowed to know what’s in store for them. The lack of information keeps them on their toes, said the producers.

Waiting in his suite until the sun rises sounds tedious. Zero climbs out of the tube and exits the room.

The Gran Alturas is quiet at the odd hour. Knife Edge chose the hotel precisely because its infrastructure was designed to house tall athletes, making it appropriately spacious for bigger reploids. The show has rented out the entire floor, providing each contestant their own private room, outfitting them with recharge tubes.

Zero eyes the hotel security cameras and Knife Edge’s cameras as he walks to the elevators. The elevator comes up quickly and he makes it to the lobby uninterrupted.

The bar is still open.

It’s on one side of the lobby next to the vertical wall windows, all soft ambient lights against the city lights across the glass. Last time he saw it, there were a couple reploids among the staff and Zero spotted “gasoline cocktails” in the menu. He still wants to ask about those.

This time there’s no jet-lagged guests or night owls, only two hotel employees occupying a table near a low, indoor fountain and a clothed bartender putting away glasses.

Zero beelines to the bar. The bartender notices Zero’s approach and lifts a hand.

“Long time no see, Zero,” the blonde bartender greets. “If I didn’t know you’re basically on camera at least eight hours a day, I’d think you were acting too good to see me.”

Zero stops paces away from the counter. The human is acting familiar, but he doesn’t personally know any human besides Dr. Cain. Maybe they’re someone he once saved?

“If we’ve met, I don’t remember,” he says honestly.

The bartender becomes more amused at that. She reaches a hand to the side of her face, pushing a long strand of hair behind –

It’s an aural cone, not an ear.

“If I didn’t already fool so many people just by changing my hair color, I would be offended that you couldn’t recognize me,” Marino winks.

Zero blinks. “You’re not wearing armor either.” Instead she’s wearing a fitting black vest and bowtie over a white-collar shirt. The nametag pinned on her chest pocket says “Mary.” She looks so human it’s why it took him a moment; Combat Mode literally overlooked her without her weaponry.

“No kidding. After that disaster, my photo was plastered all over Giga City and it wasn’t on billboards. There’s still some suits after me and lo and behold, they manage to be more annoying than the paparazzi,” says Marino, rolling her eyes as if the bounty on her head is a minor inconvenience.

“What are you doing here? This isn’t where I thought you end up after you left us.”

“I didn’t ‘end’ up anywhere. I opened a club down at Electric Square two towns over Abel. You and X should visit after Knife Edge ends. Cinnamon misses you two.”

“How do you know about Knife Edge?”

“It’s the reason I’m here. A mutual called in a favor. Now you get the privilege of being graced with my presence for a little while.”

Right, Zero and Signas discussed contingency plans to boost security for the program externally. The Crimson Hunter just didn’t expect that it would be Marino of all bots to be here.

“I didn’t know you knew Commander Signas.”

“I don’t. It was Alia.”

“You know Alia?”

“I robbed her once,” Marino smiles while making quotation marks around the word “robbed.” “Back when I was a total amateur, I broke into her research lab to nab some reploid fortification data. She caught me. Instead of turning me in though, she handed her research to me.”

“Huh.”

“We didn’t exchange comm sequences. Her contacting me out of the blue was a surprise. Turns out her boss was the one who found me. Speaking of, that Commander of yours? Real piece of work. It’s not easy to get my direct line like that.”

“Does that mean you’re going to be the backup security until the end of the show?”

“Ew, no. Who do you think I am? I’m a club owner, a freelance treasure hunter, agent on loan, and occasional government spy – there’s no way I’m sticking around that long being a babysitter. That would be a total waste of my talents,” she says with the air of a determined, high-class patron demanding to see the manager. “Besides, the Hunters can’t afford me for more than week without laying off their staff. I’m only sticking around for a couple days to do what I need to do.” A pause. “And to see you flounder with reality TV. This is hilarious.”

Zero ignores the last part. “Then what’s the favor if you’re not here as a contingency plan?”

Examining her acrylic polymer nails, Marino says airily, “Oh, nothing much. Alia gave me info so I nabbed some for her. Like _everything_ that’s going to happen in the show. All the challenges, the filming locations, which contestant the producers told the judges not to eliminate early – I’ve got them all. I’m supposed to get only the locations -that way the Hunters can prepare security ahead of time. But I tend to be thorough so now I know what's going to happen."

Zero’s processor screeches to a halt. “The competition is rigged?”

“I wouldn’t say that," Marino gestures vaguely. "It’s still technically a ‘reality’ show. There’s no way the judges would keep someone who made the most disgusting dish in the history of ever. It’s more like…there’s lot of influencing. For example, I can tell you every challenge ahead of time so you have an edge over your competition. But if you somehow screw that up, it’s bye-bye for you.”

Tension leaves Zero’s shoulders. That’s acceptable. It would be an entirely separate manner if he was dropped based on someone else’s whims.

Hand on her chest like a vow, the thief smirks, “Want the dets? A secret for a secret: I’ll trade it for your darkest secret. Nothing's free after all.”

His darkest secret?

In the same flatness he’d use for observing a concrete fault, Zero says,” I’m the origin of the Maverick Virus.”

Blinking, Marino cracks a laugh. “You grew a sense of humor after Giga City, nice.”

Zero shrugs.

“I guess it would be against your Maverick Hunter honor code if you cheat. It wouldn’t be much fun either. If it reassures you, the producers _do_ want to keep you in as long as they can. I can't tell you if that's good or bad; these people are going to rip you apart if you’re not careful.” 

The warbot’s eyes sharpen. “What do you mean by that?”

If there’s any potential threat he’s not aware of, he must rectify it.

“It’s show biz. Tell me, what have you guys been up to the past week?”

“I can’t share that. I’ve signed an NDA,” says the Hunter.

“Oh my god, don’t even pull that,” Marino laughs like chimes. “Master thief of secrets, remember? I already _know_ what you’ve been doing. I’m only asking so you can say it yourself to prove a point.”

“The schedule alternates between a competition round and a class,” Zero gives.

“You make it sound so simple and pleasant.”

“The classes are informative. I’m intaking so much data that I recharge more than I used to. Back in Base, I can function optimally give or take three hours. These days I wake up right before I’m required to. Tonight’s the first time I’ve woken up as per usual.”

“Three hours of recharge is normal for you?” the thief gags, revolted on the other robot’s behalf. “What is wrong with you?”

The SA-Rank Hunter levels a dry stare. “I’m a combat-based model. I'm supposed to be in the battlefield constantly and therefore my resting periods _must_ be efficient to remain short. Shorter rests mean smaller windows of vulnerability."

Survivability is etched in every part of Zero’s design.

Enlightened, Marino perks up, looking thoughtful. “That actually explains why you’re not going insane right now. Considering the schedule, that particular trait is really useful. It’s perfect for dealing with reality TV."

At Zero’s inquisitive expression, she elaborates, sounding between bored and pitying. From beneath the counter, she takes out a small makeup pouch. “It’s only the first week, but I’m sure you’ve noticed it. The other contestants are on their way to breakdowns like, oh, that short, blue and white one. I swear, she spends more time crying in the janitor’s closet than in her room, probably because there aren’t any cameras in there. Her emotional node may be going bolts if you ask me. There’s also that brown one - I give him another week to turn Maverick.”

Zero is taken aback. That’s not a light statement to make to a Hunter.

Angling her head in multiple directions, Marino studies herself in the compact mirror, drawling,” Think about it. You guys typically come back to the hotel past midnight, meaning you get to sleep at one to three. Then you have wake up again at six or seven before you’re stuffed in a bus for a couple hours to the next filming location.” She puckers her lips in her reflection. “Also, these aren’t fancy combatdroids who have seen warfare. These are normal people. The workdays are excruciatingly long, every square centimeter of your day is filmed, and you’re not allowed to contact your loved ones outside of two ten-minute phone calls in a week under supervision. You’re separated from your support network. That is, if you’re not a total loser and have one.”

She fusses her hair a bit, forcing her long locks to frame her face more artfully and snapping clips to keep them in place, hiding her aural cones further.

“You’re a Hunter so you’re irreplaceable. Everyone else? They have to give up their jobs for at least two months to be on a show that pays its coffee runners more. The stakes are high. That doesn’t include the super invasive interviews, the stress of being on the show, and the constant fear of elimination. By now, the show has – what. Eliminated two people already? Who were they?”

“Emile from the first round and Kary from yesterday,” replies Zero. Yesterday they weren't given any theme, only a list of ingredients. It just so happened they were the same ones that Zero used for making dumplings. He survived without trouble. 

“Right. Yeah, I didn’t bother remembering their names. They weren’t interesting. Hmm, that means there’s thirteen people left. Lucky number.”

Marino snaps the mirror shut. She rests an elbow on the counter, a hand on her chin with a cool smile dancing in her eyes, artfully posed like an advertisement.

“This isn’t just a gamble. This is a psychological experiment where everything is manipulated to reduce you into a vulnerable, anxious ball in order to maximize drama for the masses’ entertainment,” she says lightly. “The industry is harsh and unforgiving. It’s an angry rat race to the top. Modeling is one thing, but reality TV is another monster. For one, I was paid way more than the beggar change you’re getting.”

“…I’m here to cook. That’s it.”

“Aww, Zero!" Marino's voice rises in faux-sincerity. "You’re going for the genuine, good boy persona? That’s so cute. No wonder the show wants to keep you.”

“I’m not going for any persona. I’m literally here to cook.”

“Oh please, then why are you in a competition? You could have taken classes. Competitions are for winning.”

“But I wouldn’t see Crafty Polly.”

“You’re a fan?”

He shakes his head. “X had her cake once. He…loved it.”

Something in Zero’s face has Marino snapping her fingers. “You don’t want to beat the other players. You want to beat _her._ And you’re not here to win the game, you’re here to win X…I have to hand it to you. You’re doing a lot to impress your boyfriend.”

Gasping, Marino claps her hands together in glee. “I got it! You’re going to put a ring on it if you win! Ooh, I sorta want to help you cheat now. For free.”

The Zeroth Unit Leader stares. “What are you talking about? X is not my boyfriend.”

Marino blinks. “What?”

Zero keeps staring.

“No. Oh my god. Seriously?” Marino’s voice rises in pitch at every word. “Then what are you doing here?”

“Like I said, I’m here to cook,” Zero emphasizes, growing impatient. “I applied because Knife Edge’s resources is convenient for me. When I’m done, I’ll return to Base and apply my knowledge to cook for X.”

Asides from sounds of rushing water from the water fountain, silence looms over the bar for a full minute.

Finally, Marino shuffles around picking items off the shelves and below the table. She places a can of compressed air, two unlabeled metal cylinders of mysterious content, and a red gasoline can onto the surface.

“This one’s on me,” she says somberly as she passes Zero a gasoline cocktail.

Remembering why he came down here, Zero asks," Tell me how you make these."

* * *

“…And I thought oxidized gasoline would render it completely unusable,” Zero murmurs, eyeing his drink curiously.

“Humans don’t run on pure alcohol alone either. Well, some do, but that’s not the point. Depending on how the fuel is aged, it can be an advantage to use in some dishes,” explains Marino.

“Such as?”

“You’re going to have to figure that out. I mix drinks as a hobby, but I’m not a cook. I have a guy in my club to do that for me.”

Marino’s eyes flit to something behind Zero. “Oh, it’s nearly time.”

The warbot peeks over his shoulder, just in time to see a pair of elevator doors close behind a turtle reploid. Zuru Zuru Kame walks in careful, measured steps as if he’s wearing a kimono instead of a maroon shell. Steadily moving forward while seemingly barely moving at all. He looks perfectly at ease. He did impress the judges yesterday with his reploid ramen. He must be feeling confident.

Marino pulls away from the counter and stretches. “Well, time for me to bounce. _Bonne chance,_ Zero. You’re going to need it for the upcoming round.”

She waggles her fingers in goodbye, blonde hair disappearing into the staff room.

Zero isn’t sure what she meant by that until hours later after the rest of the contestants floods into the lobby, some accompanied by mini camera crews (who banged their doors to forcibly awake them). The handlers herd them into a bus and they’re driven back to the Knife Edge soundstage.

Directive orientated by nature, Zero tunes out the chatter and presentations, reviewing his mental list of potential dishes to make now that he’s learned more. Two beauticians tsk at his hair and fuss at his face. Float Butterfly’s wings were taking up too much space when they enter the kitchen and the producers force them to retake the shot, demanding that the animaloid immediately move to the side when she comes in.

The judges are emphasizing the ingredients’ sponsorship instead of explaining the challenge. Zero takes to observing the other contestants with Marino’s words forefront in his processor.

Surveying the others more closely, he can see what Marino was talking about. He doesn’t have to be a Lifesaver to see the tense shoulders, the fidgeting fingers, the way some reploids’ chests are trembling from their ventilations overworking. They’re running too hot and the third round hasn’t begun.

“We have thirteen cooks, but as you all know, we need to sift you all down to just one,” says Crafty Polly.

“We’ve had you compete individually in the previous two rounds. This time we’re switching it up,” adds Mama Moo.

“You’re going to cook in pairs. You’ll partner with each other and have forty-five minutes to whip up a delicious dish,” states Veed. He points at the turtle reploid near the back of the kitchen. “Zuru Zuru Kame – you blew us out of the water yesterday with that spectacular ramen. Not only do you get to sit out of this challenge…”

“You also get to have the privilege to choose who has to partner up with who,” finishes Crafty Polly.

*

“I was very thankful for the advantage,” Zuru Zuru Kame says with a slight bow of the head. “I knew instantly who I wanted to pair with who.”

“Figured everyone out already?” the interviewer inquires.

“Not at all. It has not been very long since the season began. There is not a single person I can claim as my personal ally or nemesis in this competition. I do not know anyone else very well. However, we have very colorful reploids. I instantly thought of a couple pairs that would bring upon their own ruin because of their...noncomplementary styles, so to speak.”

*

“Tangy Truffle shall go with Purple Pig,” Zuru Zuru Kame says at the front of the room next to the head chefs.

“Why those two together?” asks Crafty Polly as Tangy Truffle waddles to Purple Pig, waving politely to the other animaloid.

“They are both very large,” the turtle reploid chuckles softly. “I am hoping they will be in each other’s ways.”

As if to illustrate his point, Tangy Truffle’s shoulder, which billows outward at the top like a mushroom head, bumps into Purple Pig’s arm when he turns forward.

“He’s got the right idea,” Tangy Truffle concedes as the judges laugh politely.

Zuru Zuru Kame proceeds to list out the pairs, some joking and some with strategic legitimacy.

Finally, he calls out the warbot’s name.

“Zero with Holling.”

Holling…who's that?

Zero surveys the room for any unpartnered home cooks. He sees a lanky, pale blue reploid with a lopsided smirk waving him over.

“I choose them together because they share one thing in common," Zuru Zuru Kame explains a minute later.

His beak is still but his eyes are curved upwards in quiet mischief.

"They both cannot cook."

*

Yan grasps her sides, cackling as her head bounces to an invisible rhythm.

"And yo, I was like - "

She cuts herself off with another laugh before cupping the sides of her mouth like a speaker. She swings her head back and crows:

_"DAMMMMMMMNNN - "_


End file.
